It's always the same.

In my dreams it's always the same.

I'm in a field. A golden filed filled with the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen. They are a deep purple that seems to soothe the soul. Only there is a flaw in these magnificent flowers; small, but a flaw none-the-less.

There are small spots, only visible on close inspection although a few of them have larger spots. The spots are red, a deep sort of crimson.

A cold breeze twirls around me.

It's always the same.

I'm in this wonderful field with these splendid flowers and this magnificent golden grass and I don't know why. I don't know why I'm in this field or where I am. I don't know why there is a sword in my hand, why there's armor on my back or why I keep shivering as if in anticipation.

And I don't know why there are bodies all around me.

Because in this perfect field lies a secret. Hidden within the long grass are mangled bodies. Bloody bodies.

The flecks of imperfections on the flowers…blood. The shiver that ran down my spine was not anticipation, but of something else. Dread. Fear.

It's always the same.

I drop the sword. I fall to my knees. The cold breeze returns, wafting eerily through the perfectly imperfect field of beauty and bereavement. A breeze of death. I bring my arms close around my shoulders.

They're sticky.

I bring my hands up in front of my face. There's something on them. Something sort of sticky. Something red…


There is blood on the flowers, on the bodies, staining the earth, staining my sword.

I'm shaking.

Did I kill them all?

There's so many…so much death…so much blood…pain…

Did I cause it all?

Did I kill them all?

And the answer is always the same, in my dreams.