The Boy

The boy’s head lay limply in her lap; she bowed over him. Blood ran from his wound and ears, slowly congealing on her snowy dress, staining the green grass ochre. The spark of life was in him when she first conducted, but it winked out before she could arrest it. Tears fell onto his young, shattered face mixing with the subsiding sanguine flow from his caved skull. Anya stood by, remotely fused, allowing her some time. Healing was deeply emotional work. Even amongst the stink of dead and cries of dying, healers, Cavalier or not, brought life. They brought hope.