Chapter 13The dream came on swift wings, as it always did.
Snow lies upon the frost, churned with mud and slaughter. Broken lances and shields lie scattered. The crows shriek with the joy of feasting. The perfume of rot fills the air, grey cloaks and green tangled on the ground.
The enemy is in retreat, the blasting trumpets echoing from the plains. The day is done, the battle won, but he should have gotten here sooner.
A boy’s sobs come from the darkness of the wood. He follows the sound, gliding over the boughs. A pale face lies among the houses of the dead, blood already freezing on his fur cape. The young soldier reaches with a trembling hand. His face streaked with red. The prayer on his lips demands an answer.
Aeneas stands over the fractured body. Yet what is there for him to do
