A/N: Well, I've been kicking around the idea to write a color based story forever. Back since book five and Donny's white windbreaker. David and color seems to go together like Christopher and beer.

I don't know if there's more to this story or not. I guess we'll see.

Warnings: War, rape, death, killing, disturbing thought process, disillusionment.

"People don't always die in a war because they deserve to, General."

Crimson Like...

He can tell himself that this was supposed to happen. That the Aztecs were Ka Anor's allies and a threat. That they needed to be attacked. He can tell himself that because it's precisely what he did tell himself when he ordered this campaign and allowed the Vikings to go and have one of their heathen-slaughtering parties.

Believing what he tells himself, now that's another matter entirely.

During the battle it was alright. If you can call the slaughter that actually took place a battle. Even

Huitzilopochtli in all his terrifying glory can't match the power of the gods of Asgard, even when only two of them are willing to show up and fight. Much ass was kicked. But that means a major victory for him, another little reminder that yes, he can win this war.

He tells himself that, too.

The battle is over now, though. At least, the part involving his army is. Now the Vikings are overrunning everything, doing what they do best. Looting, pillaging, raping. All the usual. Any illusions he once held about the good and noble forces of Everworld have been long since discarded. Now he's walking the streets of a city he was once dragged through while on his way to having his heart eaten. That same city is now burning. If he listens he can hear screaming.

So he doesn't listen if he can help it. Instead, he wanders aimlessly through the ruined city and is reminded of the pictures in old history books of the destruction of the Aztecs. He would never have expected to be involved in the reenaction. And he would never have pictured himself playing Cortez.

No. He's not the destroyer. Ka Anor is. He's here to prevent destruction. To save people.

Smoke curls up into the sky in little wispy tendrils, blacking the blue and blocking out the clouds. The sound of steel against bone comes from somewhere behind him. There is another scream. This one is high pitched. A woman's scream. He winces and pretends not to hear it. Pretends that his order to leave civilians alone actually holds some merit. As if any of his troops even know what the word civilian means.

None of the other battles have ever been like this. But all his other fights have been against the Hetwan. And no matter how human an insect is, it will always be just that. An insect. Not a person. Not a real death. Not a murder.

He's never killed anyone. Not anyone human, at any rate. Not even in the battles with the Sennites or in the war today, for that matter. He's wounded other warriors, maybe even fatally so. But he's never watched anyone die. Never hack at someone with his sword and just known that they were dead.

There's as much blood on him as there is on anyone else. And while much of it is his own, most of it isn't. He fought today. Fought and loved it. But now, afterwards, it's different. There's no place for him in this raid now. No place for a commander and a leader. He's useless.

He tells himself that he's here to save the world. To save people from Ka Anor. To bring about peace, sooner or later. Which is exactly why his troops are out killing and taking slaves. He wishes he was Christopher, or someone else with a tolerance for hypocrisy.

Another someone screams. And this time he stops. Flinches. Eyes squeeze shut for a moment. Hands clench into fists. A shudder runs through tense muscles.

The boy screams again. He can't be that old. Maybe ten, eleven. It's hard to tell when kids get that age. Either way, it's not that old. And not that much younger than him, really.

He's turned around before he can think about it. Legs running without his say. The Viking holding him down has a thick black beard. He's wearing the standard of the great Levin army. That little white armband that April insisted on. And that white just seems to glow in the smoky sunlight until it's all he can see.

He needs to make the white go away.

He thinks that he might have shouted at the boy to run away at some point. Doesn't remember. None of the voices he heard sounded like his. Everything is a blur. A blur of white.

When the world stops spinning the band isn't white any more. It's stained red. Like his hands and face and shirt.

He's never killed anyone before.

Someone finds him eventually, crouched over, emptying his stomach on the ground. Making offerings to the white porcelain god, they used to say back home. Only it's not back home and there are no gods of anything white here. His own band is stained as red as the ground he kneels on.

There can be no white in a place like this.