when i was young (and full of glory)

Thrice the leaves had turned red and fallen to the ground, some still clinging stubbornly to the branches, the cool winds indicating a frigid winter to come, snow to lay thick on the ground and cold to seep into weary bones and cause wounds to ache.Thrice the mountain had reminded him of blood, spilling across the rocks and soaking into the ground, of ash thick on his tongue and the sound of a dizi, shrill and high, and the screams of the winter wind hovered too close to the screams of the dying..Lan Zhan, on grief, and the words he should have said but never did.