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Amidst the ashen remains of the small town, he stood. Littered with the corpses of the ones who had chosen to stay behind, or had not been given the chance to leave, in an attempt to defend what little they had or simply a stubbornness that comes with one’s love for their home. The bodies phased him little. He had seen the carcasses of many a faceless, nameless man, and he would surely see many more.
It wasn’t any different from what he had seen a dozen times before. Per his command, canons were launched, his men charged in, and the town soon turned to flames. There were no casualties among his men, only a few injuries– a rather successful siege.
He should have felt proud, but instead he felt nothing. He combed through fallen walls, briefly checking inside the buildings that still stood, searching for survivors to take prisoner. Groups of his men did the same nearby.
He moved like a machine through the rubble, letting his legs and habits carry him, refusing to let his mind focus on any one thing for too long. Look down. Left. Right. Open the door. Up, down, left, right. Move on to the next pile, the next home.
Until he saw it.
A small hand, sticking through charred rubble. Dirtied, the skin singed from flame, the embers still smoking nearby.
Slowly, slowly, he stepped forwards, and despite his better judgment, pushed the debris out of the way.
A child. Her– his– its head crushed, presumably by the roof caving in on it. Little bones, broken. Little dreams, extinguished. Nobody to mourn it, nobody to save it.
For the first time that day, Lucien felt something. A pang in his stomach. Nausea.
How could humans have let this happen?
There is nobody else here. It was alone and unloved enough to be forgotten, left behind.
Are we not meant to be more than beasts?
His brows furrow, and he swallows hard, the smoke burning his throat. His fists clench, and his jaw tightens. His ears ring amidst the silence. He does not expect a response from Him, until–
You allowed this, child of iniquity.
He stares. Watches its lifeless, repulsive remains, unmoving and unfeeling. He is unfeeling and unmoving. The sweat makes his hair stick to his face.
Do not look away.
His eyes burn for all of the wrong reasons. His heart pounds, his head throbs, his chest tightens. He swallows down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. And yet, he feels nothing. He tells himself that he feels nothing.
He turns away. Perhaps one day he will begin to believe it.