An ode to those who lost:

Those who fought to their last and gave it their all,

In that war torn valley of shattered Serenity.

Death ringing over their heads, fumes of war filling their noses, anguish racking their ears.

They fought.

That band of rag-tag rebels. They fought.

As their enemies charged towards them, outnumbering them. They fought.

As their comrades fell into the murky night. They fought.

As the Alliance ships descended from the sky. They fought.

Until their vigor ran dry, tampered by the fleeing of their own chariots in the sky.

Some stood with shock that their chariots had abandoned them.

Some cried with fear that their chariots had abandoned them.

Some fought to the bitter end, knowing their chariots had abandoned them.

The chariots of the Alliance however, did not abandon their servants.

The Alliance chariots, like a tumultuous great cloud:

Rained hell-fire down upon the stunned rebels.

Some fled, some died, most surrendered; knowing their fire of resistance had died.

They had lost.

Of course, not many would remember the deaths in that valley.

The Alliance had won, and it's the winners that write their history.

A glorious facade with which they gained power.

While the former rebels remained: scarred by the truths the histories hid.

They faded into the background, becoming white noise.

They had lost, the Alliance had won and the ‘verse moved on.