Post by 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘯 on May 16, 2017 8:24:59 GMT -5
Those who came before us used words longer than the spears they wielded, believing that making others feel foolish made them less so. Those who come after us will do the same in another, alien language that nobody here could ever dream of decrypting. We hated them for their knowledge, their skill and their ability to create things none of us could have imagined. But in this moment, none of us could care less about the length of the words on our tongues or the sophistication of our society. Which of us understands how to make others feel small or who knows every secret the universe has to hold doesn’t matter. None of it does.
All that matters is this: the blades in our hands, the blood that’s crusting on our skin. The heat of the sun on our backs and the roar of the crowd, imbued with more power than any words, no matter how carefully selected they were, could ever be. What matters is the small words, the ones that mean something. War. Peace. Power. Pain. Life. Death.
The sun continues its assault on our skin, beating us until we burn, until we catch fire where we stand in the sand. We do not notice, already bloodied and bruised. Our blood started to boil long before they reached the ground. Heat doesn’t bother us. It hasn’t in a long time.
We see them now, the final wave of soldiers. At least, it is the last one we will survive. We cannot resist another. It will run us over, trample us into the ground. They crest their sand dune, we watch them from ours. We count down the minutes until death claims us, once and for all. They don’t need to. They’ve already won.
In the blazing sky behind them hang ships, gleaming golden in the sunlight. It is blinding, more so than even the midday sun. They took the sky first. There is no resistance there. We’ve never made it off the ground. They made it here, to us.
They stormed our cities, our rivers and our seas. Most of us perished in their fires or their ice, others met their undoing at the point of a blade or pull of a trigger. Those who survived fought, and hard. We ran to the only place they did not dare enter. The only place they did not know how to conquer. They learned.
The desert is not welcoming. It is a beast that drains the life of anyone who sets foot in it. It is a fire and we walked straight into it. But it was more than that. It was a forge. We walked into it divided and afraid. Humanity came out united and fearless. A unit. A single weapon, ready to fight back until we shattered.
Humanity. Another word that matters now. The others do not have it. They are as far from human as they are close to gods, terrifying and without mercy. They slaughter and they conquer and they kill. They do not spare lives, they do not negotiate. Even their faces, so like ours, are blank slates. Empty. They are nothing but what they are. Nothing human lies within them.
They march as one. We stand as one. They make no noise. We scream and shout. We sing the song of war, the tune one we’ve always known but never before understood. Here, stained red and caked in dust, nothing has ever made more sense.
There are thousands of them, more, even. We are a dwindling few, only hundreds stand where once there were hundreds of thousands. They remain blank, even as they draw their weapons. We are nothing of the sort, painted in fear and rage and grief of what has passed and what will be. They are monsters. We are human.
And then they are upon us. The song of war changes, now full of pain and not just fury. Their weapons kill efficiently, cleaving through our wall as if it’s made of butter. Ours are useless in comparison. Blunt. Crude. We never stood a chance.
One by one, we fall. It is a shame that we could not all die together, united as a whole into the end. But we do not die together. Death, we realise for the first time only when it comes for us, is not something you endure together. It is something you suffer alone.
It is swift, the slaughter. We are grateful. The sand runs red beneath our feet. It is all our blood, their armour is too strong to be pierced by something as unsophisticated as our swords and spears. It is what feeds us, what has kept us going for so long. We have seen too much of it, spilt more than anyone ever should. We are red not only from the burns the sun has given our unaccustomed skin but from the blood of our brothers our sisters. It is our own blood that coats us when we die.
Humanity has fought wars before. We always thought that would be what killed us, our own greed and rage and selfishness. But we are wiped out not by ourselves but by the enemy. Our shortcomings are our downfall, but it is our downfall. In the end, we are one.
Facing down death, only one thing matters. It is not war nor peace, nor power nor pain. It is not life nor death, no, not even humanity. All that matters is this: today is when we finally end.
All that matters is this: the blades in our hands, the blood that’s crusting on our skin. The heat of the sun on our backs and the roar of the crowd, imbued with more power than any words, no matter how carefully selected they were, could ever be. What matters is the small words, the ones that mean something. War. Peace. Power. Pain. Life. Death.
The sun continues its assault on our skin, beating us until we burn, until we catch fire where we stand in the sand. We do not notice, already bloodied and bruised. Our blood started to boil long before they reached the ground. Heat doesn’t bother us. It hasn’t in a long time.
We see them now, the final wave of soldiers. At least, it is the last one we will survive. We cannot resist another. It will run us over, trample us into the ground. They crest their sand dune, we watch them from ours. We count down the minutes until death claims us, once and for all. They don’t need to. They’ve already won.
In the blazing sky behind them hang ships, gleaming golden in the sunlight. It is blinding, more so than even the midday sun. They took the sky first. There is no resistance there. We’ve never made it off the ground. They made it here, to us.
They stormed our cities, our rivers and our seas. Most of us perished in their fires or their ice, others met their undoing at the point of a blade or pull of a trigger. Those who survived fought, and hard. We ran to the only place they did not dare enter. The only place they did not know how to conquer. They learned.
The desert is not welcoming. It is a beast that drains the life of anyone who sets foot in it. It is a fire and we walked straight into it. But it was more than that. It was a forge. We walked into it divided and afraid. Humanity came out united and fearless. A unit. A single weapon, ready to fight back until we shattered.
Humanity. Another word that matters now. The others do not have it. They are as far from human as they are close to gods, terrifying and without mercy. They slaughter and they conquer and they kill. They do not spare lives, they do not negotiate. Even their faces, so like ours, are blank slates. Empty. They are nothing but what they are. Nothing human lies within them.
They march as one. We stand as one. They make no noise. We scream and shout. We sing the song of war, the tune one we’ve always known but never before understood. Here, stained red and caked in dust, nothing has ever made more sense.
There are thousands of them, more, even. We are a dwindling few, only hundreds stand where once there were hundreds of thousands. They remain blank, even as they draw their weapons. We are nothing of the sort, painted in fear and rage and grief of what has passed and what will be. They are monsters. We are human.
And then they are upon us. The song of war changes, now full of pain and not just fury. Their weapons kill efficiently, cleaving through our wall as if it’s made of butter. Ours are useless in comparison. Blunt. Crude. We never stood a chance.
One by one, we fall. It is a shame that we could not all die together, united as a whole into the end. But we do not die together. Death, we realise for the first time only when it comes for us, is not something you endure together. It is something you suffer alone.
It is swift, the slaughter. We are grateful. The sand runs red beneath our feet. It is all our blood, their armour is too strong to be pierced by something as unsophisticated as our swords and spears. It is what feeds us, what has kept us going for so long. We have seen too much of it, spilt more than anyone ever should. We are red not only from the burns the sun has given our unaccustomed skin but from the blood of our brothers our sisters. It is our own blood that coats us when we die.
Humanity has fought wars before. We always thought that would be what killed us, our own greed and rage and selfishness. But we are wiped out not by ourselves but by the enemy. Our shortcomings are our downfall, but it is our downfall. In the end, we are one.
Facing down death, only one thing matters. It is not war nor peace, nor power nor pain. It is not life nor death, no, not even humanity. All that matters is this: today is when we finally end.
