Embers [Closed]

[The Dark Knight]

Rosinder is dying.

The rivers that once flooded with life now ran barren and dry. The soil was crusted over with a thin layer of grime and dust. The grotesque, misshapen shapes of the plants that clawed their way out from under the soil thrived not on water, but blood. The sky was a deep, bloody red, and when its dying rays were reflected upon the roofs of the buildings that had slumped onto their sides in submission, it looked like entire villages were burning.

The inhabitants of these villages had the haggard, lifeless looks of a people whose spirits were broken. They walked with their eyes glued to the ground and their shoulders stooped in defeat. They had the hesitant, shuffling gait of a people who feared that each step might be their last. They faced the world with arms chained to their sides and spines bent, as though their backs carried the weight of one too many lashes.

Rosinder is a land whose people are imprisoned under their own roofs. Invaded by an enemy that marched into their homes, smashed their family portraits, burned their furniture, and stole everything they had. Their freedom, their dignity, their livelihood.

But there is one thing they will never steal, and that is the people's anger. The people's indignant outrage at the atrocities inflicted upon their homeland.

Steal what they may, but it is this anger, a flame that will never cease to burn, that they can never take.

---

Amongst a crumpled people, there was a man that dared stand tall. He walked with the proud, dignified gait of a king. His footfalls echoed solidly, emphasizing the strength that powered his legs and the purposefulness that guided his actions. A cape of shadows stretched out behind him majestically, and this man, whose face was dipped in shadows, saw the desecration that raped the land and forced a whole nation onto their knees.

He watched, and he grew angry.

It was an anger that stirred at the pit of his belly, and spread like growing embers. Soon it seared every nerve of his body like a wildfire, and his large hands clenched. His body was tense with the effort to contain the inferno that threatened to swallow him in its fiery maw, and the strong line of his jaw grew taut with restraint.

He was a man who still had it in it him to be angry.

Angry, not out of hate for the hand that snuffed the flame of a nation's hope, but out of love for a people who once stood proud.

[Keira]

The earth remembered.

In the hushed whisper of air that passed over the barren ravines that once chuckled quietly, the plants twisted towards the memory of better times. These memories were buried in the people of the land that had given itself over to overuse, and abuse. They might go through the motions of their everyday lives, burying their hopes and dreams deeply to avoid the painful starkness of the contrast between what they hoped for, and what they had.

The haves, and the have nots.

Every shade of difference between the two extremes of being.

One man can make a difference.

That phrase held the hint of a lie, a faulty foundation that forgot to tell the builders about the unstable rock beneath it. A world was shaped by the people that lived in it. A land that was bountiful, and now was devoid of sustenance needed to be nurtured back into wellness. Blood was the key to the entire cycle of life.

Blood could yield water, which fed the plants, and enlivened the people.

But it was hard to break a cycle that a living organism had been born into. Their very breeding was designed to cope with the conditions under which they were brought into the world.

This angry man must feel alone, for anger itself it a type of love that unrequited can turn to poison in one's soul.

[The Dark Knight]

Rosinder's oceans have been poisoned. Touched by the metallic beasts from the monstrous nation of Renovatio, the clear, lucid depths have become murky and dark; water was transformed into oil. Oil to fuel the metallic heart and brain of a monster that only knows how to take! These beasts trample upon the sacred ground that gave an ancient civilization its livelihood, and desecrate their temples with the inane, insulting swagger of their tongues. They come with their guns and pistols to dominate a people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone! They rob from those who have nothing beyond the food on their table and the roof over their heads. They snatch children from right under their parent's nose and smash a home that once echoed with laughter!

This was what gave the man cause to anger. He felt the storm brewing in his bosom, and he had to clutch his chest to still the war-drum beats of his heart. His breaths came in shallow gasps, drowned out by the cries of anguish all around him. The sound was a massive, surging wave that came crashing upon him, and like a dam that was finally giving way to a river's fury, he fell onto his knees.

The earth was dead, its thunderous rumble silenced. Even the blood that threaded through the soil like the veins of a massive organism was running dry. He looked around him to see the dusty, haggard faces of the townspeople. A people that was slowly giving up hope. A people that was gradually and reluctantly accepting its fate. A people learning to live on its knees, and feast on the bread crumbs tossed down to them.

But one man can change the world, and this one did not belong on his knees.

He clawed at the crumpled building beside him, and with some effort, dragged himself to his feet. The dust fell from his body, as though it did not belong there, and never did. He began walking, and soon his strides became the crisp, brisk gait of a king. When he saw a wall about to topple over with the elephantine weight it carried, he patched it up with a whispered incantation; when he saw a child crying from hunger, he offered a touch that filled it, not only with food, but hope.

He was the people's champion. The single, shining thread in a matrix frozen by tragedy and greed. He was the sunlight that gave a broken, rundown town hope.

[Keira]

Even in the darkness, living things are drawn to the light. Whatever this lone man had thought was lost in the crush of numbers of expressionless faces that he looked into, he should shed his blindfold of anger to enable him to see the sparks of light that ignited in his wake.

A lake is like a mirror when it sits undisturbed, yet toss a single pebble, and the ripples it creates will travel the entire distance that is all that the lake is. This man was creating ripples. For those that wanted the people to reside on their knees, his pride and outrage were dangerous omens against their enforced regime. Anger was useful to create a forward momentum in a quagmire of lost souls. Moths are drawn to the light, predators that hunt at night are inexplicably drawn as well.

The fat, intrusive strangers that grew fatter at the expense of the people, taking everything, yet giving nothing back. Takers. Users. Addicts. As much as they took, it would never be enough to fill that empty place where their souls should be. A people was a community, a country, a belief, and the heart of the land. Without the people, the land was doomed to spiral into a vast desert unable to support life.

He would be noticed, this man who shone so brightly in the midst of the doom and gloom.

May the fire of his spirit carry him through the dark times, and scorch his enemies while lighting the way for the lost ones.

But many fear for him. Fear is what is used to keep the people on their knees. The unknowing.

She was afraid for him, hidden from any who would notice her. She followed him when she could, to see what he would do. She was adapted to the community that she existed in, and so she would be invisible. When children starved, and the women who loved them had to watch, and suffer the torment of their slow death, to be unnoticed was a mixed blessing. To suffer in silence was slowly killing her spirit. Watching his acts of immense kindness filled her with fear, and an ache that she had no name for.

She was drawn to the light.

Moth to the flame, she could not help herself.

[The Dark Knight]

Wherever he walked, a crowd followed in his wake. They were mostly children, orphans whose parents died in the war. Their faces were streaked with dirt and their fingers soaked in blood. They had become scavengers, and their days were spent digging in trash for food. Bread crumbs, rotten fruits, spoiled vegetables. Anything, as long as there was fuel to keep them fighting. But it is only a matter of time before they forget what they are fighting for. When every kernel of a boy's labor is dedicated to staying alive, that is all he knows. That is all he remembers. His spirit starts dwindling away, and concepts like love, freedom, and loyalty are lost. He becomes a beast, driven by nothing but the instinct to survive. When he becomes a man, he will not know what it means to live; he will only exist in a zombie-esque state, deaf to the cries of human suffering and in a perpetual state of inhumanity.

These kids learned to accept tragedy as the norm. Once upon a time, there eyes were filled with stars, but the light is slowly being bled out of them. They know no alternative. But when they saw the man before them, they began to wonder if there was another option. A life where every morsel of thought and energy need not be dedicated to staying alive; a life in which their destiny is not dictated by the whims of a distant tyrant.

This man seemed half of earth and half of heaven. Wherever he walked, the shadows dissipated and tendrils of light curled around him, embracing him like the arms of a lover. Whenever he spoke, the heart stilled and was filled with a glowing, triumphant hope. Whenever he paused, even the stars held their breath, as though waiting for him to plot their course. At times, one couldn't help but wonder if he was a creature of flesh and bones, or light and air. He glided across the ground with the floating grace of a butterfly, but his footfalls echoed with the thunderous rumble of a giant's trek. A giant, not in stature, but in spirit.

But there were whispers. He was labeled a threat by those whose hearts had long shriveled in the darkness. To them, he was an omen of things to come, of a war that will paint Rosinder's rivers red with blood. He will lead the people to fight, to surge up with weapons drawn and spirits blazing, then be beaten down like dogs. To them, if there was no fight, then there would be no possibility of losing. These were men who would turn from their fellows' suffering, as long as they can eat. To them, he was dangerous, and they would gladly put him on the sacrificial alter, if it means they can sleep easier at night.

They said he did not belong here. Him, with his exotic features, bronze skin, and halo of dark, curly hair. Him, with his broad, powerful frame and big hands. Him, with his bright, golden eyes and kingly gait. He was not of Rosinder, and that made him no better than the robotic leeches who sucked their blood dry.

When he looked around him, he saw a sea of faces. Faces filled with hope. Faces filled with yearning. Fates filled with hatred. Although his expression remained a permanent fixture of peace and harmony, his heart was filled with dread. He knew that there were those amongst them that would throw him to the Renovatio war hounds in an instant. He knew there were also those who would dive in front of a bullet for him without hesitation. For the first time, this man was scared, not for his life, but for the great divide he saw in the people. If they do not unite, then they cannot hope to beat Renovatio. If they cannot face a common enemy, then they will be left pushing one another off the tiny boat they were all on.

But this man, this Man amongst men, has conquered great divides before, and will do so again. His fear proved nothing, except for the immense courage necessary to continue walking as he did, back left bare and vulnerable for those that'd devour his heart and feast on his blood. But they cannot destroy him, for he is immortal; not because he is a god, but because he is the living, breathing personification of an idea.

A man will die, but an idea lives on.