The land dreamed.
It dreamed the sweet, innocent dreams of a child in the midst of ruin. While the seas of war raged about it in a dread storm, it dwelt in the eye, tranquil as a pool in a walled garden, protected by isolation, its only ripples the gentle waters of a musical fountain that cascaded eternally; soft splashes that did not truly disturb its slumber, but merely kept it a step away from stagnation. No, the one who dreams heavily remains sheltered, safely removed from the horrors of reality – a refuge of peace in troubled times.
The land slept deeply, dreaming its dreams of green and blue, peace and plenty, ignorance and bliss.
Even as the night darkened and fell shapes emerged from the deepening shadows it dreamed heedlessly. Even when the shades of Night slipped into its slumber – how frail were the barriers that guarded it! – it was only another ripple, not enough to cause a wave, for still the high-walled garden flourished, guarded by watchers that did not disturb the water or pass the gate but patrolled in obscurity, out of sight and out of mind, faceless guardians that lulled the gentle dreamer into trusting that its security and comfort were not artificial but indeed the way of the world in all places and among all peoples. They were the soldiers that took the long night-watches, peering into the dark from their camp among the ruins. They it was who had seen too much of war, of death, of that which dwelt in eternal night, but kept to their post for safety of the small child behind them who could not even conceive of the horrors that assailed its refuge, night after night.
Innocence is a very precious thing, after all; once lost, it can never be regained.
But the storm grew in intensity and power, and the watchers were called away from their task, and there was no lock on the gate, for it is beyond innocence to imagine the power of evil long-hidden from its sight and knowledge.
But no innocence can endure when darkness is the master of the land, and no shelter will forever hold. And so it was that slowly the fair dreams gave way to dark nightmare, and the child turned in its sleep, crying out in fear and helplessness, its few weak struggles deftly stifled by the iron grip of terror that held it.
The gate was not locked, and the guards had departed.
The garden was dying, bright flowers and fruit-trees made brown and weak by a cruel affliction. The fountain flowed no more. Fear and malice choked the pool, clinging weeds that blocked the light of the sun, and filth fouled its clear waters.
But even this darkness did not hold, for the clouds broke, and the seas of war subsided. The weeds were uprooted and scattered to the winds; the sickened trees and faded blooms were healed and burst forth in greater splendor than before. The fountain resumed its quiet murmuring, and small ripples reigned over the pool once more as its own gardeners tended to it. The dreamer sighed as the nightmare faded from memory and their night-wanderings took them to fairer lands and brighter days. And the guards never truly returned, but observed from afar, secure in the knowledge that now the children of the garden had taken up the task for themselves, maintaining the peace after banishing the evil.
For while the land dreamed, some of its children were forced to wakefulness. And they left the sanctuary and were witness to all the fury of the storm and the terror of the night, for there was no longer any veil of sleep before their eyes to shield them. They endured, however, out of reverence for the dream and love for the dreamer. They returned to find that that which they had struggled for was marred despite their efforts to save it. But they took up the mantle of protector, out of love once more, and restored the land of their birth.
And peace there was ever after, until the gentle cruelty of time caused the land to dwindle and fade from the world, and the dreamer quietly passed away, never waking.