What is war?
I used to think I knew an answer to that.
I thought it was purpose. That it was necessary.
That if we stood on the right side of it, then everything we did would mean something in the end.
It sure doesn't feel like that now.
It feels… empty.
Like something that keeps going because no one wants to admit it should have never began.
People talk about will as if it's something clean.
Something worth admiring.It isn't.
I've seen what people do when they're certain they're right. I've seen angels burn cities without hesitation. Devils tearing through anything that moved. Fallen like me pretending we were different, that we had stepped away from it.
We didn't.
We just picked a different excuse.
That's all war is. A pile of excuses that got too big to ignore.
The sky above me looks nothing like the beautiful endless blue it once was. It hurts to look at it for too long.
The ground is worse.
It's… soft.
I don't need to check why.
Something shifts under my shoulder when I try to move. I stop. There's no point. My wings are gone, or close enough that it doesn't matter. I can't feel most of my body anyway. Just patches of pain where something is still holding on.
My breathing keeps catching. Like my body's already forgetting how to do it.
So this is it.
Not even dramatic. Just… fading out in the middle of nowhere.
A sound pulls me out of it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Careful.
I force my eyes open.
Someone's there.
For a second I think I'm imagining it. Wouldn't be the first time my head's played tricks on me out here.
But he doesn't disappear.
He gets closer.
That's enough.
"Don't come any closer," I manage. My voice barely works, but it's something.
He doesn't stop.
Of course he doesn't.
"That's usually my line," he says.
There's something off about the way he says it. Too calm. Like none of this is urgent.
His hand lifts.
I try to move back bracing for the death that was about to come.
Nothing.
Pain answers me but the man had done nothing.
"I said stop," I push out, sharper this time. "I know who you're with."
I don't need details. Doesn't matter if he's angel, devil, whatever. He's not on my side. That's enough.
He crouches beside me anyway.
"Do you?" he says. "Because I don't."
…what?
For a moment I just stare at him. That doesn't even make sense.
I try to gather what little energy I have left. Motes of light forms in my hand. Weak. Barely there. It dies before it can become anything useful.
Useless.
"Go find someone else to torture," I say. "I'm already dead."
If he has any sense, he'll leave.
He doesn't.
"huh," he mutters, like he's thinking it over. "Would make things easier for me."
Easier for who?
Before I can say anything else, his hand presses down.
Green light.
It spreads fast, sinking into me before I can react.
My body locks up. Every muscle tightens at once. My breath catches so hard it feels like I forgot how to breathe.
It hurts.It hurts.It hurts.It hurts.
It hurt more than before.
"Stop-"
"No."
He didn't say it aloud.
But it doesn't leave room for argument.
I try to glare at him, but it's hard to focus. "Why are you even doing this…?"
"Because you're dying."
"That's not your problem."
"It is now."
That answer… confuses me.
My fingers dig into the ground. "You think this changes anything?"
He barely reacts. "No."
Then why?
The question slips out before I can stop it. "Then what's the point?"
He actually looks at me properly then.
"Because I don't feel like letting war decide this one."
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. "That's… not how this works."
"It is if you're stubborn enough."
There's something wrong with him.
I narrow my eyes. "You think you're above all this?"
He pauses for a second, like he's considering it.
"No," he says finally. "I just don't see a reason to play along."
…that's worse isn't it ?
"You're insane," I mutter.
"Yeah. Probably."
My breathing steadies a little. The pain in my chest eases just enough that I don't feel like I'm about to choke on it.
I hate that.
I hate that he's healing me.
His hand pulls away, and the warmth fades with it.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
I turn my head away first.
"Next time we meet," I say quietly, "I won't hesitate to kill you."
There's a small pause.
"Next time," he replies, "try not to end up like this again."
Foolish man...
I don't look back at him.
I don't want to, how can someone like this exist.
Someone so free ..?
The moment I turned to look at him he was… gone.
For a while, I lied there, staring at the sky.
Breathing. alive. I don't know how to feel about that.
War will go on, but was there really what she wanted to return back to was this truly all she desires to live in this world?
Deep down she hoped she died today, because "she" was left behind to die her will was broken and she didn't see a point in this war.... And if there was no purpose to this what was even the purpose of her existence the reason she fell for.
The belief, everything .... everything inside her was broken.
...
People never agreed on when the stories began.
Some said it was during the beginning days of the Great War.
Others claimed he had always been there, slipping through the cracks of every conflict long before anyone thought to name him.
Healer of the Forsaken, The Hidden Seraph, The Unclaimed, Verdant Heretic, Ghost of Mercy there were many names they called him.
Though even they felt too simple for something no one could quite understand.
He did not walk with any armies.
He did not answer to banners, nor side with any side that claimed righteousness.
Where war raged, he was absent. When war ended, the screams died down and the ground stopped shaking, that was when he appeared.
Among the ones left behind.
The forgotten. The discarded.
The ones who were not worth finishing off and too inconvenient to save.
Some swore he was like an Angel. Others said he simply appeared, as if the world itself had misplaced him for a moment before remembering where to put him.
No one agreed on his face. No one could describe his voice with certainty.
Even those who spoke to him found their memories slipping, like trying to hold water in an open palm.
But they all remembered one thing.
The green light.
All healed from it.
Breath returned to those who had already begun to forget how to take it.
There were stories of devils waking up in silence, their injuries gone, with no memory of who had saved them.
Of angels who found themselves breathing again despite knowing they should not be. Of fallen who swore they had seen him kneel beside them, only to question later if it had been a hallucination born from desperation.
No one could prove he existed.
No one could deny it either.
He never stayed.
That was the strangest part. No gratitude was answered. No questions were entertained.
The moment his work was done, he was gone.
Some tried to follow him.
None succeeded.
Some tried to find him.
They did not even know where to begin.
In time, the stories grew. War after war, conflict after conflict, the same whispers resurfaced.
A figure moving through ruin. A presence that did not belong to victory or defeat. A being who healed without reason and left without trace.
Those damned with war began to hope for him.
Just enough to keep breathing a little longer than they otherwise would have.
And perhaps that was the cruelest part.
Because hope, like war, had a way of lingering long after it should have faded.
...
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