The air is filled with humidity. Not from rain, morning dew, or a hot day. Tis from blood. The same blood you walk upon with your feet that try not to trample upon the dead, for you yourself found your way into a finished battle, that neither side won. You like to adventure, you always did. You never felt the need to back down when things got hard and when you felt like you just couldn’t anymore. That isn’t you. But this made you change. This made you rethink what you thought over your own being, your own self, and your own psyche… “Can I keep going…?” You mutter to yourself, each footfall that you make it tramples upon a sword, dagger, or broken arrow. Perhaps a hand or foot. A severed head or torso. Tis not your fault, for it is night. The dark, solemn, endless void of night. Only your hand uphold a lantern that merely has a speck of light that is compared to the endless expanse of the sky. You try to look up at the stars, to distract yourself from what sights your eyes have befallen unto, but you can’t. After what seemed like hours of walking among the dead, you see a shadow. Standing up right, head hung down, upper torso steadily rising and falling. Inhaling, exhaling. A repetitive cycle, that everyone does. Yet this man’s is different, his is a different kind you’ve seen before. You can’t say why, nor can you think of a word to describe it. It’s just… different. Something about it… makes it eye catching. You approach, cautiously but with haste, and when your lanterns’ light falls onto his armor you see the sight of blood, battered metal, and white cloth with the insignia of the British heavy infantry. He looks at you, his armor glistening with the tint of red, then looking back down. No words are said, but all know its meaning. “Why hath God, all powerful, befallen this unto me?”