Wreckage

The white flag flies high above, swaying delicately in the passing winds. In the land of Farolin, there was only one language known by all: The language of war. Within that language lies a word that nobody dares inherit the shame to speak aloud: Surrender.

As the flag of white soars high above the remains of what used to be the capital city Remnoff, it is heard by the enemy as the opposing army raises their hands to the sky in victory. There are no screams of success, no hugs of triumph or final words spoken.

In fact, the army that stands before the ruins of Remnoff consists of only one.

He makes his way across the desolate battlefield. Black leather boots pressing against the dismantled dirt and kicking away at any bodies that lie against the burnt grass. His eyes gaze over the area around him, taking in the carnage. Surrounding him dispersed across the field are different masses of fur, all in different shades of color. Among them in even greater numbers are the bodies of soldiers. Battered and bruised, they lie limply with no response to the dark cloaked individual walking by them. He steps on a musket snapped in two beneath his feet, the wood along the end of it ripped away with a deep scratch mark taking its place. He kicks it off to the side where it hits against the concrete of the city streets he had finally reached.

The city is in no better shape than the barren field behind him. Buildings are crumbling at the sides where walls have been brought down by sheer force. The once lively roads and alleyways are completely desolate of people, and the unfortunate ones that had been populating the streets prior to the attack had either long since run from the area or lie immobile beneath the rubble. However, there is still some life along the streets.

A pair of squirrels run between his legs as they move in perfect sync with one another. Their tails look intertwined as they move in a criss-cross formation, not missing a single step in their dance of victory before they make a dash beneath a pile of rubble into one of the dark alleyways.. A group of deer stands in wait at the side, watching him pass by while also taking in the devastation they had wrought. In the distance is the howl of a wolf, a cry of joy and success that brings him to smile against the cracked scars marking his cheeks. Another howl cries out from another direction, one that brings that smile crashing down against his chin.

That howl is one he recognizes. A howl that contains no joy, or pride, or valor. No, it was a cry of fear. A cry which he heard hundreds of times amidst the battlefield behind him, and one that he once was far too preoccupied to attend to. This time, however, he had time. This time, he might make it.

He makes a dash across the street in the direction of the howl, effortlessly vaulting over a collection of rubble cutting off the street from regular access. His black cloak pulls against his neck while waving behind him as he sprints with complete disregard to the bodies of animals and humans alike. The howling has ended, yet he does not stop. He makes his way down the corridor of one of the dark alleys, bracing his shoulder as he rams into the wall on a tight right turn. Shrugging it off, he sees light shining through the darkness at the end of the alley. Light that doesn't give the comforting yellow glow of the sun, but the harsh orange of fire.

He steps out of the alley to see a relatively large building with a thatch roof and barn doors at the sides. Along one of the walls is an insignia that represents the now fallen army of Remnoff. Two thickly lined curves both in the form of an 'S', one starting in the central lower part of the other, and alternating blue and green in color. Although it is hard to see, as the building itself was lit aflame with fire erupting out from the top. The entire building was going up in smoke. He watches the flame flake away into the air, smoke filling his nostrils, his eyes glued to the sight. Whatever had happened here, it was already too late. Until he heard a quiet whine.

His eyes drag away from the flame as he looks off to the side. Sitting a distance away from him and similarly still is the gleam of silver-white fur. Smaller in size than most of the others that line the streets, it sits on it's hind legs in wait. His brow creases, waiting for the young wolf to come running to him, but it does not. When his eyes shift upwards does he soon find the reason why.

Standing beside the wolf is a boy. Young, likely no older than twelve. His short black hair was singed with the sparks of fire that must have reached it, his face covered with black streaks of soot and ash. He wore dirtied gray trousers and a light beige shirt, both of which were ripped, torn, and burnt beyond recover. The sure signs of a stable boy.

He turns back to the building on fire, and they both stand in silence as they watch it burn. Support beams clatter against the ground in flames, charcoal streaks the ground, and soon thereafter it completely collapses in on itself. Throughout the entirety of the show, they did not move. What could have been a few minutes or even an hour, they stayed put in each others presence. This boy did not present himself as a threat, and didn't even seem to notice him. Even so, the man still felt his body tense, and his hands tighten even as they stood still. Because while his hands turn to fists, the boy's does not. His right hand stays at his side, while the left rests patiently against the top of the wolf's head, gently petting the animal.

After the building collapses and the rage of the fire dwindles substantially, he turns to face the boy. The boy seems to notice the change, and looks over towards him. His hand grips the fur atop the wolf's head and his eyes widen in fear. That sense of comfort he had before vanishes once he actually takes the sight of the man into view. That initial fear quickly settles though, whether it is because of the sense of understanding they both already seem to share, or because it fell into despair.

"Are you going to kill me?" The boy asks, voice both hesitant and calm in a strange mix that makes nearly no sense to the man.

"No." He responds after a moment of silence. He walks towards the boy, who takes a few steps back. The wolf notices the man coming closer too, and looks between him and the boy. Recognizing the hesitancy of the boy, the wolf moves behind him and nudges him forward. Although still hesitant, his shoulders fall in comfort of the animal's physical presence.

The boy sighs, shutting his eyes tightly before looking back up at him, "You're him, aren't you? You're L- . . . Larc." The boy stutters over the name. Taking a second to bring himself to say the forbidden, even though the ones who garnered such rules were no more.

"I am." He says, finally coming close to the boy and kneeling down in front of him. Due to his sheer height, kneeling down is only enough to bring him to eye-level with the boy. "You saved my friend here. Didn't you?" He asks, looking over at the wolf. The wolf leans it's head forward, and Larc puts his hand out to gently pet the top of his head. The wolf grumbles quietly.

The boy watches the interaction, his expression unchanging, ". . . He got stuck. He was scared, and asked for help, so I helped him."

He stops petting the wolf, while his eyes don't leave it. To hear such a thing from the young boy, and to see how his silver-furred friend treats him, there is no longer any doubt in his mind. He rests his arm on his knee, and turns back to the boy, eyes narrow.

"Thank you. He's young, and he'll live because of you. For that, I thank you." He says, then raising his other hand and placing it on the boys shoulder. Immediately there is a spark of lightning that seems to pass between the two of them, nonexistent except for their own eyes. A mutual understanding. A statement of truth that proves his theory correct. After that moment passes, he exhales a breath he didn't realize he had been holding in and finally speaks.

"You're just like me. Aren't you?"