A lone boy sits on his knees on the street. He can hear screams of pain and loud yelling in the distance. But it does not phase him. He is too busy staring up at his mother's face.
He is but 7 years old, yet his home is on fire. He has lived there his entire life.
One might ask himself what he ever did wrong as he sits there, tears gently streaming down his face. He slowly turns his vision to his father's face. His father simply stares back with a lifeless look in his eyes.
Of course, this lifeless look is not weird. As it comes natural when you are dead.
That's right. This boy's parents are dead. Killed by the very soldiers that vowed to protect them. He looks upon the two crosses where his parents sit. Blood slowly trickles down their legs. The rusted iron nails used to stick them on there haveturned crimson.
The boy is suddenly brought to his feet by a rough hand. He looks up at whoever grabbed him, and sees nothing but a helmet with a thin stripe of open space where the eyes would be. Inside is nothing but darkness. The helmet also sports two majestic horns, both of which have some sort of hair sticking out of the sides, like wings.
"Sind das deine Eltern, Kind?"
"Ja."
A short response from a traumatized child. He doesn't even struggle as he is dragged down the street by the man. Everywhere he looks sits these crosses, with men and women upon them. Mothers and fathers. Grandparents and cousins. Buildings are burning everywhere. There are even massive piles of books burning along the street, as legionaries are seen throwing more and more onto the fires.
Women and children are dragged out of buildings, screaming. The women are simply burned or nailed to a cross. But the children are all dragged along the street.
"Was habe ich getan?" asks the child as he looks up at his captor.
"Nichts. Aber Talibar hat." comes the response, cold as ice.