Desmond's hands are burnt at the palms, blood trailing down his forearms into his rolled-up sleeves. Bruises cloak his body like ink staining paper, and beneath, bones lie fractured, too many to count.

Underneath the veil of the smoky skies, over the rubble of the battlefield, the golden dawn merges with the fading dusk, where light meets shadow in a quiet embrace. He closes his eyes once he feels the blinding white against his face, and his fingers trail over the indents of his bible.

In a voice softer than he’s ever known, he whispers, "Lord."