The battlefield was drowned in silence, broken only by the whisper of the morning wind. The ground was soaked with blood, its stench heavy in the air. Mangled bodies lay scattered across the scarred earth, their crimson banners fluttering weakly in the dawn light. Even sun was rising red and the fog that clung to the field seemed tinged with red, as though the war itself had stained the sky.

Through this wasteland walked a woman, an old shaman wrapped in faded robes, her staff tapping softly against the broken soil. Walking slow and study, you could feel the old times power on her slow movement. She was old but looking younger than her age, but her eyes was dull and carrying the weight of the thinks she saw on her all life. Behind her trailed a small girl, no older than ten, carrying a bundle of herbs and cloth with ropes.

Together they moved slowly, checking with the tip of eye at each fallen warrior. Sometimes the woman would kneel on a warrior, place her hand gently on a fallen warriors chest, and after a moment of stillness, move on. None stirred. None breathed.

Battlefield was mirror of hell. Blood thats out of bodies made a small lake at the path way. Ripped body parts of warriors, gore, and smell was unbearable. Crowns having their time with the dead bodies. You could hear the rats bites on the bodies while they are having their food. This was the war. After the death it was not even important why they fight for. They were dead now and nature was taking its part to feed the rest. In this scenery it was surprising how calm and slow shaman was moving without sign of disgust or fear.

Clearly little girl was having courage from her or she would run away without even looking back. Her eyes was full of fear but still keeping herself under control and have a relief of knowing everyone is dead and nothing is moving except the crowns and rats. Even the wind and smell at the wind was bothering and saying they shouldn’t be here.

Then, some distance ahead, the shaman halted. Her clouded eyes fixed on a lone figure lying among the heaps of the dead. Unlike the others, his body trembled faintly with breath. His wounds were terrible, deep gashes across his chest and arms, while others had an armor this one didn’t had anything to protect him, his blood soaking into the earth. His long hair, tied on the back, was matted with dirt and gore.

The shaman knelt beside him, her hand brushing lightly against his brow. She felt the faint rhythm of life still clinging to him. She lifted her head and gave a subtle sign to the girl.

“He is almost gone,” the girl whispered, her voice sharp with doubt. “It is pointless to save him.”

But the old woman did not answer. Her silence was resolute, her hands already moving to prepare herbs and bindings. She saw what the girl could not, the strange presence that clung to this man, a spirit of strength that was not of this place. He was not belong among the fallen.

As dawn broke over the field of the dead, the shaman worked quietly, determined to draw this lone warrior back from the edge of death.