The doctor wept to fill the ocean.
Before him lay hundreds upon hundreds of broken soldiers. Born into tragedy, dying from sorrow.
He brought his hands up, blood-smeared, and stared at them.
Blood-letter.
They brought him the sick and dying – too many bodies – and he healed them.
It’s not enough.
The fields were littered with tents and stretchers and makeshift beds.
What hope is there in this war?
A Captain arrived, barked orders, then left.
He didn’t really hear the man.
This madness cannot continue.
So the doctor – who fixed the broken – walked towards the Fields of Glory. He shrugged off hands that would stop him. He broke limbs he had fixed together when they would halt his progress.
He stood in the middle of the war and spoke a word.
The war stopped.
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