Really short thing

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His eyes search the battlefield for any sign of life, cold emerald meeting a sea of reds and blacks.  A cold wind kicked up, whipping his hair into his eyes.  He called out, his voice, merely a boy's, echoing across the sea of bodies.

     Nothing.

     He had been warned of this.  He had seen the weary eyes of half-dead men, the hollowness that was their every second.  He had heard the tales of the Talian army, of how they would kill entire battalions out of spite.  And still, he had been unprepared.  There was no pride in the screams of these men, dying like pigs, penned and slaughtered, some killing each other in blind fear.  There was no glory in the eyes of the enemy, the eyes that looked hauntingly like their own.  There was no honor in this war, it was just a big bloody argument that no one could seem to win.

  And it had taken his brother.

  The sobs didn't come, even as he begged himself to sob.  To break down and cry.  To do anything that resembled what any sane person would do.

  He did not.

  There was no sanity in war.

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