"Ansel," Aurora called out, tired fingers loosely gripping her blood-stained sword. Her eyes were wide with desperation, and they were dark, as if purged of light, as she cried out once more. "Ansel!"

His nimble fingers froze on the wood, an arrow still notched and the string pulled taut against his cheek as he blew out a light breath. The tiredness that he hadn't felt the past few hours came all at once in that moment, an aching in his muscles and a heaviness in his limbs. His cheek hurt, a shallow indentation having formed where the string had been placed time after time, and a pain colored the red of wine spread across his skin. His ears rang with the sound of his name on Aurora's tongue as he turned, slow and deliberate as if waking up from his murderous, soldier-like state.

Ansel's lips moved, but no sound came out. He couldn't find the strength to say a word, and his mind spun in a whirl of confusion. He lowered the bow to his side, and as his skin stung at the touch of the cold, bitter air, he met Aurora's gaze. "Migolith. This is Migolith," Aurora paused, eyes darting to the stone towers that erected from the snowy hills before returning to Ansel. "Where is your sister, Ansel?"

Where is your sister, Ansel?

He blinked. The snow beneath his boots stirred slightly under the wind's gentle touch, and the war around him continued to rage. The clashing of metal against metal was loud, but it didn't jar him, and neither did the cacophony of screams that filled the air. He simply continued to stand still, and he blinked. And then, he blinked again, and then again, and then again.

Where is my sister?

The words he formed in his mind were more a repetition of what had been said to him than they were a sentence he'd crafted himself. They were an echo, a question he wasn't quite sure why he was asking.

But then, he saw a flash of a bright, brilliant blue. He saw hair, blonde and soft. He saw a hand, half the size of his own, and a smile, wide and pure. He saw a little girl, the epitome of innocence, and when he asked the question once more, he saw purpose.

Where is my sister?

A warmth began to his creep through his lips, and the numbness that had once conquered them began to dissipate. His heart swelled as his voice rose delicately up his throat. "Cecily," he breathed, "Where is Cecily?"

The bow that he had cling to so desperately moments ago fell from his fingertips, wooden frame sinking into the snow until it was lost. It laid, forgotten and abandoned, as he looked up towards the sea of chainmail and arrows. He saw the fallen little girl from such a far distance, and he knew that if he'd been a good few miles out, he'd still have seen it. How could he miss the sight of such broken innocence? Of a smile marred by blood? Of happiness shattered by war?

As Ansel stood still for a moment, burning gaze on his little sister, he knew this: he had been apart of the war. He was a reason why Cecily could never be the same. And knowing this hurt him more than any arrow could.

So as Ansel ran towards the chaos and the Adrigolian arrows sailed the wind towards him, he didn't feel even an ounce of pain. His body felt numb on the outside, and though he heard the sound of his boots on snow, he did not feel the jarring of his boot smashing into the snow in his foot. He did not feel the disruption in his leg. He felt the desperation of a boy longing for his little sister. He felt the adoration of a boy whose hands had not held his little sister's in a long time.

And when Ansel finally held his little sister's hand, calloused palms surrounding soft fingers, all he felt was ice. He choked on a cry of misery as a pang of pain jolted his heart. The tears that clouded his eyes turned his vision blurry and the sob that racked his body was far bleaker than anything he'd known before.

Where was his sister?

He saw no light in her bright, blue eyes. He saw a body, as abandoned as the bow back in the hills. Where was the soul, happy and pure?

"Cecily," he whispered, tired fingers stroking her soft, blonde hair. His eyes said what his lips couldn't. Come back to me.

There was still a desperation in his fingers, a desperation in his eyes. There was still a desperation that he clung to, a desperation for a little girl that was gone.

I'll do anything to make you stay.

But slowly, the desperation began to melt away. His fingers fell away from her hair, returning to wrap around her cold hands. His head lowered, resting against her chest. He couldn't hear a heartbeat; he couldn't feel the rise and fall of her breath. But he didn't feel the arrows in his legs either. He didn't see the blood that had begun to pool around his knees.

He saw the fragments of her innocence, the death of her happiness, and above all that, he saw the darkness in her eyes. It was darker, blacker, than anything he'd ever seen before. As he gazed into the eyes of his little sister's corpse, the tears on his cheeks turned to glass, reflecting all the regrets and sorrows he felt for her.

I just want to see your bright, blue eyes again.