She'd seen a dog, fur matted with blood and clinging to its ribs, on the road. Just watching them as the passed, its eyes swinging mournfully to trace them.

He looked like that, now, gaunt face lined with fire and a gleam in unremarkable eyes that spoke of steel. Two worn-out words in Latin over his heart, ink faded with dust, and an ache in his voice that spoke of a thousand paper cuts to the soul.

Return to the Old Ways, the man muttered, a sad scowl on his lips as their words tumbled from his lips.

"I was there with my wife," he grunted, knife adding its rasping keen as it scraped over the sharpening block. Those hard brown eyes slid to the flag atop the pole. red and white stripes neatly fitting around the blue. Red stripes on her hands echoed it, biting into her wrists beneath her cloak.

The man continued, eyes dead of humor as he smiled. "Was a shithole before, don't get me wrong. But seeing that old dome from the visitor's gallery when the fifty-cal's opened up, well... actually made me feel sorry for the bastards."

There, canted perfectly at an angle on the house, in the wind, red and white and a cross stitched neatly over the blank blue field. It wasn't the first time she'd thought that it was a symbol of pain from the beginning.

White linen hid him from sight, when he strode to her side, the familiar rattle of metal sounding off to the side when the crate's lid tumbled off. She could only his elbows, working in practiced ease, oiled steel working with quiet clicks and a muttered litany under his breath.

-the power, and the glory- she caught, in a quiet breath, and the man's hands returned to view at last, his frame blotting out the light. "We didn't last long together," his voice sighed flatly from above. "They'd had my tests on file. Ran too hot for them to come out right, and that sealed it for me."

"I never saw her again. Maybe she's one of you, if she ain't dead yet. I hope she's dead."

His back, now, the note of love in his voice fading away as boots rapped their way steadily to the door. A rifle, a dusty pack, and a folded scrap of cloth in his hand. The flag came rippling down, cross falling to the wood below, and dusty stars rose above the abandoned home.

And here the man was, in front of her, as the straps tumbled free, another worn pack kicked heavily to her feet and the metal gleam of a gun coming to rest on the table in front.

"Hope you know how to shoot."

I've always had a fascination with dystopian literature, even when it's heavy handed. Sometimes you can learn more about the time when a work was written, in things like that, than the future it envisions...

Perhaps this isn't appropriate for DPP, but I was struck by the thought of a deeply religious man, a traditionalist in many respects, taking up arms against a theocratic regime. And what sort of interactions might he have with a woman he's not sure he can trust, who's not even sure he's on her side...

For many other prompts, most of which are much more fun, check out my post history, or take a peek at my profile.