The Fight to Survive

The old man walked his way through a dream, black and white blurred his vision as he made his way through the wreckage of earth, felled cities were the dwellings for the survivors. Dust covered the landscape, like the trees that used to be green were burned to ash. The old man walked his emotions now as surely as he walked this broken earth. He felt for the hatred to the holders, felt for the murder of the keepers, but his mind was blank as the world desolate.

He walked his city, looking at the dirt that covered the women and children the tears that never stopped running down there eyes, the ripped clothes and starved bodies, sworn to protect, his hatred bubbled through is body like a running stream, the murder pulled at the seams tearing him apart. He looked at the men, the hatred in their eyes, conflicted with the love for their loved ones, not wanting them to get hurt. Families hugged each other, supporting one another, rarely did they get in fights.

The keepers, held the swords, held the respect across the sea, where everything came from, after the time of knowledge. The colorless used to live across the sea, but sent to a land broken from war, it could be felt in the ground, it shook with the knowledge of murder, of fear for life, it radiated how war went, the old man studied the ground and the signs it sent him, grew to understand the language of war, and its complications. There was no shortage of metal here for the weapons and armor that he needed.

He was the protector, the keepers anointed a protector when they sent their ancestors here, and claimed them the colorless, it was a title passed from father to son, or daughter. He was this city's protector. He had the knowledge passed from his father, and his father before that. It was a chain linked back to the time of desperation, before the colorless learned how to hunt and fish and go without food and water for days. He had the memories of hundreds of generations.

He walked his city, comforting the families, helping them care for their children, he did this every day. He saw the helplessness coming from the families, like a cornered and starving wolf desperate to survive. That's why he planted the seed of rebellion, every day he held a meeting urging all males to come, teaching them the sword, and giving them the fight to rebel, this last meeting was meant to congol them into rebelling, the speech was meant to be as smooth as silk, yet as deadly as a poisoned spear wielded by the warriors of great, meant to give them meaning yet take their hope, it was a masterpiece he started writing sense he was a boy and he knew this job was his, it was a speech that turned hearts to stone, and hands to knives.

After he tired and could barely stand, he left helping others and walked to his dwelling place, a place where he felt safe from everything including the constant pulse that this city sent at him, as if it didn't have enough of war, as if it wanted to see men broken again, torn apart by war. War is like suicide, but only u dont want to kill yourself, but u still do.

He reached his dwelling and pulled off his clothes, and changed into his night garments. His thoughts were conflicted even though his mind was blank, his dwelling was dark, and made of stone. A bed and a stove were the only furnishings, the stove was a wood and coal stove made of red brick. His bed was sturdy and made from plain wood, and the sheets were white. It was small, but it was his home so he felt it was perfect. The old man sat on his bed and rubbed his joints, thinking over all his conflicting thoughts.

Outside the sun was setting, falling below the horizon, showering purple and pink and yellow over the land, the temperature cooled, and the breeze picked up singing a beautiful song. A river could be heard singing the music of the wind, as well as the song of the dark. The temperature felt like silk, soft and cold yet beautiful, the wind was like cotton fluffy and textured, and the river was like felt, hard and soft, yet forgiving. All things were beautiful at night the old man thought, where everything was in shadow, yet somehow wasn't scary.

The morning was brittle like cold steel, but not hard like a weapon, it was like a beautiful statue about to shatter, standing because the creator held it up. The old man felt he himself was about to shatter, holding up an entire nation, an old man with a city on his back, the old man smiled at the imagery. his mind fell as the day wore on, he canceled his speech, and sat inside frowning at himself, the war was on his mind the land pushed at him, pulled him, tortured him, forcing him to accept that the only way to change was to fight. It tore his seams more than they were torn, he thought his seams were already broken yet the land found seams that were still whole he fought to forget the language he had come to love, now seeing war for what it is and not what he wanted it to be.

His mind raced and raced, his thoughts fought to win, he now fought a war in his mind, he was old and tired, it was a war he knew he couldn't win, but it made him see, what a war with steal would do, he thought he knew, but he came to understand knowledge and experience were two different sides of the same coin. He realized a war fought with thoughts was devastating, he shivered and fear shot through his spine as he thought of a war fought with steel.

Life left his body slowly as the land bullied him into agreeance. He fought to survive, he fought to be himself, to leave war, to leave all violence, but that was to late, he knew, after building the anger of rebellion and teaching the art of murder, his mind started sinking as he had no spirit to fight, he had no more life in him, just an empty shell, his heart stopped, beating as blood stopping flowing to his brain, starving him of oxygen, killing him slowly. The land absorbed his body's nutrients over the years, bringing flowers and fruit trees to the broken land.