Cold Hands

She walks over the wasteland with impeccable posture despite the uneven ground. Her claws slice the air as she reaches for something you can’t see. Gently touches it and whispers something you can’t hear. She doesn’t look at you. Why would she? The creature lives in a world of her own.

You wonder if she is talking to the dead souls of the fallen. Their bodies litter the ground where she walks but the woman takes no notice. Her murmurs are lost in the breeze which brings the stench of death to your nose.

War is a terrible thing. Your body feels hollow. Heavy, fragile, empty porcelain. You have no idea how your vulnerable human flesh survived the killing. You don’t understand how your mortal arms were able to strip the life from so many brethren. But they did.

Your murdering heart beats with useless remorse. Undirected sorrow fills and fills the cavern inside you. Your brothers. Your sisters. Your allies and your enemies. All sleeping now while you sit and hate your victory.

It is difficult to decide if you love or loathe the angel which walks the battlefield. Her purpose here is uncertain. She could be taking your comrades to heaven, to hell, or leaving them to wander the earth. She could be here by chance. She could be here by choice. Her beauty contrasts the gore on the floor. Her serene face makes the world seem more evil. Does she even care?

It’s easy to look at her. Just as easy as it is difficult to see the guts and blood you took it upon yourself to feed the earth. Maybe if you asked her, you’d know what she thinks of your petty conflicts? If mortal wars are even worth notice. You’ll never know if she would have answered you. If her reply would have brought comfort or dread. Instead you sit and hold the hands of your best friend in the world, hoping your warmth can transfer into his cold skin.

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