He was carved out of the dark granite of this war. His black hair, matted with dust and sweat, fell in a sharp line over his forehead, like the shadow of a helmet. But the eyes... the eyes gave everything away. Deep, dark brown, they weren't just a color. They were tired lakes, in which the reflections of fires and the dull, petrified pain drowned. There was no cruelty in them, but genuine fatigue—fatigue from the sight of death, from the weight of the rifle, from himself. It was the look of a man who had seen too much to remain the same.