Work Text:
The world around him is red.
A burning circle hangs in the sky, slowly dipping past the horizon. The light cascading off the katanas scattered around the dust-covered bodies of many.
Quietly he sits. His scavenged blade in its scabbard. The clumpy fruits of his labour in his hands.
He is so hungry.
Cold rice crumbles in his fingers, sticking to his chin as he eats.
The crows have joined him again today. Sharing a meal together, tearing into rice and flesh.
His red eyes flash in the light, mirroring the blood painting the dirt; the body he is sitting on. His feet barely touch the ground.
A murmur of people in the distance breaks the quiet. It’s time to move again; the villagers deciding to try and find their dead.
He wants no fight today.
It is quiet.
The flapping of torn banners and the hoarse cries of crows the only things breaking the hush over the field.
A soft breeze blows through his silver hair, spreading the smell of rot and decay. The smell of blood.
His sandal-covered feet are caked with ruddy mud as he moves forward.
A slip of a child.
A ghost on the battlefield.