Under the bloody vestiges of broken clouds, the battlefield lay dismal.
Swords and blades entwined to form an endless thicket of thorns, where fresh blood—still warm—trickled freely down the sharp and icy curtain. The limbs belonged to either enemy or comrade; it was almost impossible to tell. Arms severed, amputated values strewn everywhere, and the chaotic scene echoed with the moans of the dying and the cries of the injured.
The final Rebel Army had retreated, and I too had encountered my last victory in life, yet there was no joy of victory in my heart—only a vast void and bewilderment.
Even the pain of my own wounds seemed but an Illusion in this bewildering haze.
