People don't know what year it is anymore. It was the little things like that that went first; the things we can't feel, that can't hurt us. There aren't years anymore. There are days. Hard, hard days. One after another, like grains of sand down your throat, in your eyes.
The Muggles are gone, too. We saw them as little.
And here I stand, a god on a ruined planet, surrounded and pursued by madder gods.
Or perhaps I am the mad one.
My name is Max. My world is fire and blood. Once, I was a Road Wizard; the last bastion of protection for the few scattered Muggles I knew in a compound in the middle of the desert, in a time before everything was desert. Among them was a woman who became my wife, and I had a child with her. They were both non-magical.
Everyone I knew there has been killed in the name of wizard purification, by Lord Humungous: a titan obsessed with the Voldemort legends of old.
Old stories like those are little things. Stories like mine. Lost in the winds of endless pain; not forgotten, but perverted by fanatics. I killed Humungous, but giving into vengeance is like watering the desert. And now here I am, nothing left, carving a disappearing trail as my hair turns grayer and my mind grows weaker. Soon it'll fail to hold back the voices in my head; the ghosts of those I could not save.
And listen…Here they come again.