A soft, strangled laugh.
Aaron's voice.
"…heheh…"
He wasn't laughing at them.
He wasn't laughing at the battle.
He wasn't even laughing at himself.
He was laughing because… he had forgotten this feeling.
The feeling of being helpless.
The feeling of being small.
The feeling of looking at a broken sky with nothing but a brother's hand holding his.
As the cracks on his skin spread, his senses dimming, his vision flickered—
And the battlefield disappeared.
Replaced by a memory.
***********************************************************
Cold.
That was the first thing he remembered.
The cold that crawled through the cracks in ruined buildings. The cold that bit their fingers while they slept on broken stone. The cold that sank into his bones so deeply it felt like part of him.
He was small. Barely able to walk properly. His clothes were rags—thin and dirty. His cheeks were sunken from hunger.
Beside him sat a boy only three years older.
Aamon.
