"Only the dead have seen the end of war."
- plato

DEAD.

EVERYONE WAS dead.

All apart from him.

Jake Warrens.

Cold, limp, lanky and lifeless. Nothing but a fragment of the past, a fading memory. The clock ticked, and with each second that flew by, even he forgot their names. There was Major James, Laurence. . . What was the other? He was sure the name had began with a G, but nothing came to mind. No face to match the missing name on the tip of his tongue, no laughter to let the curdling guilt and abhorrence that slumbered within the heart of the estranged soldier fall, and be replaced with relief. Bitterness at such cruelty in a joke, but relief nonetheless. A sign of life is all he asked for: a trace, a glimpse, a flicker. A bloodied hand to arise, a shallow cough or erratic sneeze. Something—anything to let him know that someone was out there with him.

Walking.

Surviving.

Trying to get back home.

They had not informed him of it—of the rush, the fear, the adrenaline. Of the confusion, the bewilderment, the few seconds in which you become paralysed, a deer before headlights, unable to move. The Major had failed to inform him of the buzzing in the ears, or the ringing of the bombs as your body was flung in the air and everything becoming a wash of blue and red and faint yellow before you hit the ground, body broken in several places but you're forced to get up. Forced to fight a loosing battle. As long as one man is standing, the war will never be over—those were the Major's last words to Jake.

He only wished he'd taken them to heart.

And the rain—an onslaught of hail, of piercing edges of ice and fear and anger—it hit them hard; backs sliced, cheeks grazed, the very scalp on their heads oozing with the slick substance of blood. Red decorated his uniform—it bathed him as the rain bathes the land, as water bathes a child and as love bathes the soul. It scorched his eyes, painted his cheeks and graced his lips with a menacing smile on its face. It flew past his elbows, pricking at the cuts upon his fingers and fell to the soil: the stain of man upon nature. Jake knew he was going to die that day. He knew it with all his heart.

And yet, he hadn't.

There he stood, in the field of bodies and roses and falling leaves of autumn, alive and breathing and awake. Alert with panic, heart beating with apprehension—but alone: a lone soldier amongst the dead. Everyone was dead.

Everyone, but him.

Could he run? Could he leave? Was he kept alive for a reason? Thoughts attacked his mind: they pricked and prodded at his skull until agony racked through his being: fists clenched and eyes in a haze. Nothing was clear anymore. Nothing was good, anymore. Maybe that was because nothing was left on the field apart from him, and the thousands of bodies that were damned to an eternal slumber. He was alone—completely and utterly isolated from the world. Jake brought his hands down and touched his pocket. The sound of crinkling replied. He sighed, some relief flooding his face. It was there. The letter to Amandine. His Amandine . . . —

—and Amandine! How had she not come to thought beforehand She was clear, she was good! As long as Amandine was alive and well, then Jake was truly not alone. He owed it to her to get home. He owed his life to her.

So Jake stepped forward. The grasses crunch, although a minute sound, echoed throughout the lonely field. The ravens cawed. The lone magpie watched in anticipation. The wind stopped. The sky dimmed.

And so he took his second step.

His third.

And then, his final one.

—

In all the years of Major Arthur James' life, shock was something that had not haunted him. It had not crossed paths with him or placed a hand upon his shoulder. It had not smiled at him, nor met his gaze or give a warm greeting. Shock had simply never met Arthur James. It was just another word, another thing that people conspired about.

Shock was nothing, until then.

He'd pretended to be dead. He didn't breathe. He didn't move, although he trembled with fear. Fear for his life, fear for his sanity, fear for the screams and tears that would plague him as he returned home. He feared the faces that would haunt his dreams, the hands that would strangle his throat in rage, the voices that would plague his every thought, or the face of his wife: disgusted, in his survival.

Jake's breathing was too loud. It was erratic and without rhythm; it was a scream in an empty field. Arthur held back the urge to scold his soldier: to look him in the eye and scream for him to hush, to cease of sound and movement and breath—

—but it was too late.

His body hit the floor. The letter sat next to him, bathed in blood. Eyes of amber shone in the sun. Lips parted, his final breath fleeting. The lone magpie flew. The crows averted their eyes. The man without a heart was dead. The finest soldier that Arthur had ever seen, was dead.

And there was no bringing him back.