A single rose stood in the field of ash. Vibrant red in a grey sea. To and fro the soot wafted, straining through the thorns to reach the lush petals, but not even wind would help. Nothing could touch the soft, delicate blossom through its protective layer of crimson. Yet the crimson dripped. Each drop splattered against the scorched earth.
With the battle done, the war waged, and the world burned to a crisp, armor had no use. Now the flower shed its shield. Priding itself in its cleverness, the rose relinquished the borrowed blood back to the fallen soldier.