Taramiel always seemed to find himself alone. He dragged his long sword against the grass, letting it drag against the exposed skin of partly-charred bodies, stripped of their clothes and homes. There were campfires at the edge of where this village once stood, where other members of his army might have waited for him. It was as if he’d missed the rush to dinner, while the rest of the schoolyard boys cut him in line and left him behind in the dust, and he was left behind to fend for what was left, if he had the courage to step in line.

But this was different. The small set of forces that he carried with him were perfectly obedient, and never dared upset him. He thought to himself that they were more likely to quiet down when he approached the campfire than they were to cheer for him. Perhaps that was a more effective way to lead an army.

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With the fire so distant from him, he could watch the smoke rise up into the night sky. Like the limbs of a ghost brushing up against the black canvas, speckled with white dots, the smoke seemed like it was growing ever higher, ever closer to its destination, but in reality, it never really moved.

The smoke died out. The army, like a reasonable set of men, had left for bed. Now it really was just Taramiel, alone. His eyes were beginning to bug him, but he wasn’t ready for sleep. Not yet. Here on the battlefield, his heart and his mind buzzed violently, and he could do almost nothing to contain it. Sleep would only aggravate it, he figured. He brushed away the dead bodies in his path, and kept pacing.