'This is the best we can do, brother.'
The woman whispered. Her mellow and soothing voice laced with sorrow. Her figure kneeling beside what appeared to be a bloodied man in knightly armor. His metal suit dented all over.
Her hands, covered in dirt, clasped the laying man's bleeding hand and placed it upon her lap.
'The goddess is thanking you and apologizes for what has happened.'
The man slowly moved his head and looked at the statue right beside him, opposite to his sister. It depicts a woman in robes with her hands cusped in front of her, face partially hidden by a veil, a ring of halo atop her head, and 3 pairs of wings outstretched from behind.
Very noticeably, are two streams of red flowing from the hidden visage of her face.
He could her them all outside.
The shouting of his men, the clashing of their steel against the roars of their nemesis.
The wailing of mothers desperate to protect the cries of children.
Weak, pleading against the tide of insurmountable and unreasonable death.
Even the cathedral itself seems to express its own emotions as the floors tremble and walls rattle. Bemoaning the approach of the closing of it all.
Compared to what was outside.
Dying in my sister's arms isn't too bad, he thought.
A passing thought that once he might not have let pass, even through his darkest of trials. But now that it has come to a close, a morbid feeling of release against his responsibility, expectation, and failings – he can finally let go.
As if on cue, his body started letting go. His hearing start to dull and his vision turn to a blur. His sister's prayer a murmur that lulled him deeper to rest.
His final thought: I hate this dream.