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Pay Heed to the Wise
By Silver Sailor Ganymede
Only the fool will pay heed to the wise in such a land as theirs, where war's clutches become its own demise. The sadism of the people does not reach to their own, oh such a shame that is, as this sin will devour them all, and who will be laughing then? The gods perhaps, the demons up above them, those that would block out the sun and take away their power. The sun was eternal, alive, as was the fire – it could not die in such a way, it just could not. Yet the sun was gone, such black revenge on those that wasted her light and life; oh poor child, what have you done? You should never have played with fire, it is your own fault you know, now that the darkness has claimed you.
Only a fool would start to pray, the gods do not hear the damned. Only a fool would listen to the wise, you said as you sneered, yet the wise truly are wise, they knew of your impending doom, just as you did, only you chose to ignore all that they would have told you. Such a sorry state you are in now, as tears of fire are wept and fall to a ground stained with darkness from souls stained with blood; hatred was your downfall, imperialism no glorius victory. They quashed you, threw you from your throne; even the sun has come to hate you and all that you stand for.
Sunrise is gone, fire frozen. The gods have nullified whatever powers you and your own once held. Now infinite blackness holds firm on your nation as does death on a corpse: poor, naïve child, gods and demons do not stand by those that would let themselves become beasts.
You saw beauty in the bloodshed, their red deaths so reminiscent of the element of the nation that brought about their downfall. You saw beauty in the flames as they ate away at the the flesh of your enemies, as they screamed in pain and fell to death. Such macabre beauty in such horrific pain, but only when the pain was that of others; if it were their own then it was nothing more than weakness, and weakness was not beautiful at all. There is no beauty in weakness; weakness leads only to death.
Their lands are no longer soaked red by the deaths of their enemies but are now red with the blood of their own. The gods deserted them long ago, as had everything else: the sun is gone and now death's coldness reaps the souls of the children of the flames.