The battle was over. Rifles lowered, survivors fleeted…then silence. In a strange way, this quiet was far more eerie and frightening than the fight itself, as the emptiness revealed the war’s carnage, strewn across the barren fields. Horses and men lay dead, forgotten. Some still gripped firearms with stony hands. All had a story, tales that will forever remain untold.
And the wives and children, fathers and mothers…brothers, sisters, cousins…they wait. They wonder. Pacing the floor, eyes weary, torn apart in aching fear. These people wonder if their loved ones survived.
And will they ever know for sure? Faces broken and bloodied, bodies mangled, will they ever know who these lost people are?
Among them, a revolutionary lies. His skin turned pale as the falling snow, soft blue eyes glazed over, unseeing. His horse is at his side, taking her last shuttering gasps through smoke-strangled lungs. She nickers, nibbles his straw-colored hair, and still he does not move. Instead his hand slides from the rein. His blood-stained shirt shuffles in the wind, as though only sleeping, moving restless as he dreams. No; it’s just the wind.
Lost, the revolutionary, fighting for his country. Lost, is the battle, yet he will never know.
Never will he know he lost to lose.
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