Everyone was dead. He saw them all in his head the second it happened. He could still see them every time he closed his eyes, and it tortured him. He tried to cry out in anger, but found it useless. He tried to punch things, but it just left his fist scraped and bleeding. So he did the only he could; he sat down and took it. There was always some form of suffering before the redemption, after all. He had made his home in the church, one of the few that still had solid foundations and, more importantly, a roof. There was a hole, above the altar that let in sunlight. It was all rather dramatic, if there was anyone still alive to appreciate the visuals of it all. He was lying down, on his back, trying to sleep. He hadn’t slept, though. Not in a long time. The Son of the Morning wanted it to be night again. Mysterious, but it's good to be writing things I've seemingly forgotten about.