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Description
Sherman had promised that he couldn't stop what was coming.  He'd apologized for it, and offered to help them rebuild themselves when the time came, but the bloodshed due them for their treason was unavoidable.

Thomas moved like a specter through the scorched land, along the trail of destroyed businesses and the blood of livestock.  All of it was signed, almost formally, by the trademark bowties.  They glistened against the blackened trees.

His wounds leaked through his shirt as he continued the trudge behind the army.  Thomas' job was to be with the widows, now.  He belonged with the elderly, the children, and the shattered remains that they'd need to use to rebuild themselves into… something.  Whatever there was left to be.

Up ahead, where things were still green and as unsuspecting as they could be, his troops gathered themselves to try and slow down the destruction.  They moved livestock and money, quickly as they could, and mounted what defense was reasonable when there was no hope left.

It was his responsibility to pay the blood toll of their future stability and peace.  He'd accept it, and follow through, with all the dignity and spirit that his southern heritage had instilled inside of him.  To do any less would be to spit in the face of everything he was.

And, to try and stop it now, would be like trying to battle a thunderstorm.  He needed to accept this; regardless of how much he bled and ached, or how thoroughly his soul crumbled.

Thomas reminded himself, as he wordlessly took account of the damage, thunderstorms always cleared eventually.  It kept his tired feet moving beneath him.

Description
Sherman had promised that he couldn't stop what was coming.  He'd apologized for it, and offered to help them rebuild themselves when the time came, but the bloodshed due them for their treason was unavoidable.

Thomas moved like a specter through the scorched land, along the trail of destroyed businesses and the blood of livestock.  All of it was signed, almost formally, by the trademark bowties.  They glistened against the blackened trees.

His wounds leaked through his shirt as he continued the trudge behind the army.  Thomas' job was to be with the widows, now.  He belonged with the elderly, the children, and the shattered remains that they'd need to use to rebuild themselves into… something.  Whatever there was left to be.

Up ahead, where things were still green and as unsuspecting as they could be, his troops gathered themselves to try and slow down the destruction.  They moved livestock and money, quickly as they could, and mounted what defense was reasonable when there was no hope left.

It was his responsibility to pay the blood toll of their future stability and peace.  He'd accept it, and follow through, with all the dignity and spirit that his southern heritage had instilled inside of him.  To do any less would be to spit in the face of everything he was.

And, to try and stop it now, would be like trying to battle a thunderstorm.  He needed to accept this; regardless of how much he bled and ached, or how thoroughly his soul crumbled.

Thomas reminded himself, as he wordlessly took account of the damage, thunderstorms always cleared eventually.  It kept his tired feet moving beneath him.