Blinded by her blood, Sister Brigid looked like she ought to have been dead, but she was not. She awoke, her face encrusted, squinting at all the corpses coating the field before her. The richest crimson of the most fragrant rose would forevermore appear faded and colourless next to these wildflowers which bled deep-scarlet.
She wept as she lay on the grass. It was finished. The war ceased, the fires dwindled, the moans faded and died, but the suffering was still preserved on the faces of those who had perished. “God forgive us all for what we have done here this day… In the name of the Father…” she made the sign of the cross.
Pushing aside the pain, she climbed to her feet and wept as she absorbed the result of war in its full. She saw men with knives sticking out of their skulls, women who were devoid of their organs and others who had been beheaded. Crows circled above the dead, relishing the slaughter. Within this horror she wondered if the passing of time could ever restore the beauty of this holy place.
No flagons of wine would be had in celebration this day, for truly there was no victory here, only the loss of even more countrymen, not enemies, whose hearts had been blackened through no fault of their own, along with those who had laid down their life so that others may live.