The wickedness in the air smiled at him tightly as he laid there groaning in the pain as his body and the arm was severely bruised because of never letting go of the sword. The sword should be intact in the winner's hands, so he believed. He gave his own crooked laugh back before crying out.
The silence was of the aftermath. And that brought joys of victory, sorrows of losses, and a deep loneliness. A feeling of being alone is different than that of being lonely. In loneliness no one is there. Not even the self.
His whole physique was protesting with the tremors of pain it was sending, competing with his determination to even move. Even in the injured state his posture was that of a leader, a king leading the worlds of millions. The heat of sun, basking his body with a golden glow, did not help much.
With the sun shining bright in the sky high, a lone cloud had an audacity to bring rain. As though it was showering its sorrows and paying its respects to wash away the remainder of the war. There was no particle of terrain left without infused by blood.
In between the reek of blood, smoke and pollution wafting in the atmosphere, a pale rainbow bloomed in the horizon; blossoming a colourful sight in the gray picture. This simple, thus artful act of nature unknowingly brought a sheer trickle of hope in his heart.
He sat up with the great effort among the very amount of his pain and grief. He started crawling to the small distance, through the piles of moist ash and dirt. To the blood smeared frame of his best mate, a comrade, a companion.
He reached out to touch his forehead as to make sure he was alive, to feel the life left in his structure. The said comrade opened his eyes slowly. The long lashes fluttered against the dust smeared across his face. His face contoured because of pain, in attempt to move. His blue eyes aligned with the familiar dark, black obsidian orbs. There was a hint of hope, worry and care in those aloof eyes.
The comrade stayed unmoving, waiting for his last moments to fall short in... guilt?
A streak of knowledge passed in his mind. All the false alarms, those moments of suspicion, were proved right right now. His young heart was too much infertile to bear this amount of betrayal and loss.
The sword still planted among his fingers unaware of, he lifted it and stroke with the aim of neck with colossal amount of force. His torso dug in the dirt till waist, unattached with his head. The grip on the hilt of sword, which was jammed and numbed, loosened. It fell with clink.
Even Lucifer laughed loudly, as he was usually stone faced. As he cursed his own comrade the hellfire burns. He laughed at Fates' games with this mortal, vowing the best punishments for traitors.
