In the End

Turning snow pink; In the absence of springtime; I create blossoms.


The soft whispers of the wind carried the stench of blood, and the screams of a dying generation. The land in front of him looked untouched, majestic in its glittering beauty, separated from the movements of the outer world, the real world, a world doomed to die. Even outside of the real world he was not alone, not once in his life had he been truly alone, he noticed this and cared not at all. Blood dribbled from a small wound on his thigh; more came from the spot where an arrow had entered his upper arm leaving it useless and numb. In his wake nations had fallen, shaking in fear at the thought of his return, now there was a small imprint in the snow tainted with the blood of a broken man.
Tears ran down his cheeks as he looked at the last peaceful place in the world, another place about to be tainted by his very presence. It wasn't worth it he realized, it never had been, all the death all of the pain had never been worth it. It had seemed so at the time, but at the time, it always did. There had had been a time when he had cared. When pain was very real, and life wasn't something to run away from, a time when he had known love. Yes, he thought, there had been a time, once long ago, but not anymore. He didn't deserve it, too much had been done, too many lives had been lost. They would never again know the pain of living and he would never know joy peace. It was a fair trade was it not. No, it probably was not yet what could he do they were dead and he was not, he lived while they died, for ever dying until they crossed into the realm of the dead. As he walked upon the world destroying everything in his path, never stopping to witness the devastation left behind him or to think of what laid over the next hill.
He had conquered a world and found it to be empty, he had lived a life and had forgotten the value of it, he sought redemption and couldn't see an answer, he fought for peace and brought only war, he wished for an end yet could find no beginning. He found only death. Everyone else’s and his own, only death. Death he realized was the answer, it always was. With his death, he could begin to right a lifetime of wrongs, with his death the real world could begin anew ignorant to the times of death and pain.
Weeping he knelt in front of an apple tree, he left arm hanging uselessly at his side he removed the plain broad panned dagger with his right. Breathing slowly, he shifted his grip on the dagger preparing it for the fatal thrust upwards. Quick as lightning his arm flew upwards in an unwavering line aimed straight for his heart. For one second in his life the man who had conquered the world was truly alone for in the second before the dagger had entered his chest his heart had stopped beating.
The solider looked at the dead body of his people’s greatest enemy, and felt no joy, only fear. For even in his death the man who had brought nothing but pain and suffering had won again. The world would once again be at war, a war, the solider knew that would eclipse every war ever fought in history. Looking around at his companions he saw only fear, the fear of the unknown, fear of the future. The solider did not have a family and doubted that he ever would, for a war was not a time to raise a family.