Weather the Weight of the Sun
Water drips from the rotting shingles, moss creeps from the cracks in the marble floor. One by one, colourful pieces of the mosaic fall down, slowly sinking into the depths of the deep well where a fountain once stood. You can barely make out the shapes of the heroes of old, barely recognize the vibrant livery of the banners they carry. And soon, even those outlines of a shape will vanish, leaving behind bare, crumbling wall.
Here, it is the end.
From the top of the broken tower, you can see the ravaged land. A great city laid to ruin. Burned, charred forests sprinkled with fresh green where nature reclaims the ashes. Desolation until horizons. And silence. Greatest silence to ever grace the realm, ever since in the ages past, your ancestors had claimed it as its own. You have grown, you have prospered, you have raised spires to the sky. Water shimmered in the fountains and serene songs hazed over white courtyards and in sun-filled streets. But now, those are all memories, tales almost as distant as home far away, beyond rivers, beyond mountains, beyond wild world’s end.
That you have won is, in itself, a miracle. When they came, swarming down from the northern passes, from where only snow was thought to lie, when the battles turned into routs, cities turned to cinders, it all felt lost. And yet your fathers and mothers stood fast against the foe, and so did you. Losing ground inch by inch, but making them pay dearly – up until even their tide dwindled, and the Last Queen, so young, so beautiful, led her final, desperate charge against the last of their regiments. You were there. You have seen that. You have seen her reach for their leader, fight him and strike him down, before succumbing to her wounds, her banner torn by the winds raging on the quiet battlefield. But before bleeding her last, she had witnessed her victory. All of the foes being driven back and into dust. Last of her people surviving.
When the bloodshed was over, you raised a pyre for her, the banner her shroud, for it was the proper thing to do. Then you gathered the ashes and scattered them over the dead land she died for, for it was the proper thing to do. And thus, as all things must die, so did the story of your land reach its conclusion.
Yet, nothing ever truly ends. Here, there is nothing left for you. Ruins and bitter memories, ash, soot and wormwood, the quiet marred only by the howls of the wild beasts.
Here, it is the beginning.
Legends say your ancestors came here from a land far, far away. A land abandoned, but never forgotten. Its name is still on your lips, as you watch their legacy crumble. Beyond the horizons, beyond the wild world’s boundary, there is a home for you to return to.
The story of your land has ran its course. You are too few to raise it anew. But it’s end was a beautiful, high note, a last stand worthy of any song. And there are no endings that are absolute, and no stories that do not lead into new tales.
The time has come for you to come back home.
