A figure rose amidst the dust and metallic mist, etched black upon a pale morning sky.  Despite the warm glow of sunlight, the land remained shrouded in a chill that entered the body and numbed the mind.
    Staggering forward, the figure dropped beside a silver and crimson lump on the ground.  A hand was laid upon it, caked in dirt and blood, in a vague allusion to the nurturing façade of a mother.
    “Get up,” Abaddon spoke gruffly, voice nearly cracking.
    He shook the lump softly, fingers digging in slightly.
    “Come on, wake up.”
    Rougher, rolling the body back and forth several inches.
    “Ghost, you can’t die on me, not here.”
    Her face, streaked with rivers of dried blood, remained statuesque.  Sapphires reflected the sky above, revealing the circling birds that cawed and argued over the battlefield.  Abaddon couldn’t hear her breathing, and adrenaline started crawling through his veins.
    “Damnit, wake up!”
    He could almost feel Vassago’s reaction to his dead charge, and he envisioned the look of revulsion in Aftiel’s eyes.  Their voices, so condescending, reverberated in his head, condemning his horrific actions.
    “You were right,” he confessed to the body, “I am nothing more than a murderer.”
    Abaddon lowered his head, trailing his hand across her shoulder, observing the seals fade back into their harmless obsidian.  Back to normal…
    “Ghost, why didn’t you stop me?  What am I supposed to do now?  I don’t want-  I’m not a hero!”
    Wrapping his arms around the limp weight of his former companion, he clutched her to his wounded chest.  His eyes were bloodshot, a depressing echo of the tears he wanted to spill.  Her head rested beneath his chin, almost as if she had fallen asleep.
    “I’m sorry, Ghost…I’m so sorry,” he breathed, moving her blonde hair a bit as he exhaled.
    Gently laying the body back on the ground, Abaddon’s eyes lit with the power of his element, filling his blood with a serenade of summer.  He summoned what energy he could, and brought his hand in an arc over the body of Ghost.  Rose granite begrudgingly rose from the soil, groaning under the command to cover the fallen assassin.
    Muscles screeching, Abaddon stood slowly, eyes fixated on the tomb.  His fingers slid over a knife held in its sheath, strangely bereft of blood.  A frown slid onto his face as the sunlight caught his eyes, blinding him for several seconds.  He closed his eyes briefly, before turning his aching body away.
    “Goodbye.”
    The sun illuminated the path of the Nafarian, allowing the blood and scars of the battlefield to come to life with the flickering shadows.  Feet scuffing the ground, Abaddon refused to look back, not wanting to admit what he had done.  It was this that spared him the sight of a single crow, white feathered, landing upon the pinkish stone.  The red eyes followed the progression of his figure walking determinedly away.  Despite the raucous cawing of its kin, the crow remained silent, making no sound to disturb the lamentation.
    Abaddon’s ears twitched at the sound of crows gathering about the place where a meadow once stood.  He ignored the pleas, and grimaced at the irony.  Balling his hands into fists, tears finally leaked out of his eyes, cutting through the dirt upon his tanned skin.  He stumbled forward through the copse of trees, before falling to his knees in the shelter of a willow tree.  The branches caressed his shoulders as they shook slightly, but bore no comfort to the soldier.
    The sun could not reach the shuddering man, but he had realized that the sun was not going to bring relief to the cold.  No, the rays wouldn’t reach him here, not where the Earth was ruler.
    ‘A murder of crows’
    “Damnit Ghost…I hate that about you.”

    Thud, thump…thud, thump…
    His back pressed against the tree, Abaddon’s ears twitched slightly.  Adrenaline shot through him as the noises persisted, steadily rising in volume.  Hoof beats..?
    Thud, thump…thud, thump…
    Close now, but he couldn’t see the owner.
    “Odd,” he whispered, muscles tensing.
    “Abaddon.”
    A stallion stood before him, red roan coat glistening as flame in the sunlight.  His mane shifted slightly in the wind, covering the brown orbs studying the Nafarian.
    “Moriel,” Abaddon found his throat extremely dry, “Wha-What are you-”
    “A rider is nothing without her mount,” boomed a voice, echoing amongst the trees.
    “Then you can-”
    “No.”
    His heart fell, “Then…”
    “Follow me.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “To where Fear is king.”
    A single, white feather fell before his eyes.  The world slowed down, and his limp body slouched over, a single vision of a crimson stallion bearing a white crow seared into his memory.