And so as the things approached, with their small mishapen bodies pounding towards me, I said to my comrade,

“Please tell me this is not the end.”

“I make no promises,” he replied with a voice to broken to sing, “But I think that this is not the end. Possibly the beginning, and I would love to begin with your hand in mine.

So as the things trampled the bodies scattering the valley, we fought. There was nothing possible enough to let us live. And as the masters of the small things and their masters too came for us, we screamed. Not of fear or of defeat, but in honor of the bodies tgat lay around us. We shot at and mutilated and screamed with every broken ounce of our hearts at the things. But they were heartless, soulless, broken creatures that cared nothing of their own worth. For they had nothing to live for.

Thir bodies vanished into nothing but ashes, and yet it was phœnix-like the way they seemed to be reborn with the sheer number of them coming for us. And when i looked over ignoring the acheing in my body I saw him fall to the ground.

“Hold my hand,” he whispered, “I don’t want to go alone.”

And by the time they had taken me to the ground it was too late. His hand lay lifeless.

But I still took it, for this was the beginning.

Not the End.