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There wasn't much left for him. There wasn't much left at all. As he flew through the forest amongst the leaves, it appeared there wasn't anything at all.
The tree, stained crimson, stood taller than any building he'd ever encountered in his life. And her entrails did not fail to horrify, they twisted his insides in the most horrible, sickening way, the way her body had been so carelessly thrown against the bark. Her eyes, clouded over in a nauseating mix of pain and fear, stared blankly up into the sky she could no longer see.
He did not cry. He could not cry. His emotions had been wracked so many times before, often in the most brutal way possible, and he had become so immune to the concept of death that it no longer occurred to him how truly cruel this world could be.
He remembered her coffee. How the taste had been crisp and sweet, how she had put in two cubes of sugar, instead of one, despite his request for a single cube. She knew, somehow, that the extra sugar made the coffee that much sweeter, and despite how tough he always came off as, if his coffee was too bitter, he wouldn't drink it. She noticed only the small things, like how far to push the blinds back in the morning, how he liked that damn cravat of his tied, and how hot the bathwater should be.
There was one thing she hadn't noticed, though. She hadn't noticed the smiles that ghosted across his lips when she walked in the room. She hadn't noticed the few moments his hand had lingered on hers during training. And he supposed he hadn't, either. This was all new to him. Everything about this was new to him.
She'd never come to him, and he'd never come to her. They had lived in silence, only exchanging a chance few words, few of which held any meaning at all.
And now he'd realized, he should've spoken more. He should've told her. He shouldn't have hesitated to tell her. There had been plenty of opportunities.
But it was too late, now. She was gone. She had met the cruel end that all of them were doomed to encounter, eventually. Mangled and broken, her lips would never smile again. Her lithe and practiced fingers would never again run through her honey-blonde hair. He would never again be able to sneak glances at her during squad meetings. Her hair was no longer the soft yellow color he was so used to.
It was red.
A dark, gruesome red, that would not go away.
She was gone.
The sun shone a brilliant golden through the treetops.
But he could not see, and he could not feel.
She was broken, he had broken as well,
And for the Lance Corporal,
The light of the sun had died along with her.