The Wasteland
It was called The Wasteland. For miles and miles what was once an abundance of green became utter nothingness. Trees no longer bore fruit; many were either uprooted or burned to the ground. No grass grew there anymore; only death and decay remained. This was the new reality. The beginning of the rumored new world. He traveled for miles with nothing but the tattered remnants of his clothes. Worn soles that were once sandals cradled his feet from the harsh gravel. His hands were stained with dirt and blood. On his back was the Harusame, scantily shielded from the elements with a long, ragged cloth tied across his torso. He could no longer remember the taste of food...the sound of laughter. He could barely recall the sound of his own voice. The lands were covered with rancid and decaying bodies; some he never met, others he knew intimately well. The smell of fresh flowers was blotted out by burning, rotting flesh. It was a stench he was now accustomed to and no longer made him vomit. Every expanse of the wasteland was the same: darkness choking the sun; rain clouds hovering in the distance; decapitated, mutilated and decomposing bodies sprawled out as a maze he was forced to step through. There was no need to check for survivors. The hope of finding a breathing soul among the heaps died long ago. He knew their fate was swift and terrifying; he understood their demise more than they did.
It began as whispers in the night. There were tales of this demon hellbent on destroying the world. The humans who saw it called the being a monster. Shamans called it The Spirit of Fire. He called it his brother's guardian. For years he was told this was only the beginning. That the world would need to be purged to make way for the rebirth. The humans would perish; none were strong enough to survive in his brother's world. And the weakest Shamans would be exterminated with them. There was no use for the weak, even if they were of his own kind. He understood this well, and over time it was a reality he was forced to accept.
He wanted to believe in the hope of humans and the strength of all Shamans. There was a small piece of hope that the two could coexist in an ideal world. That war could be avoided. That no one would have to die. But his dreams were shattered swiftly before they could take root. The hope that once burned in his chest was now a fleeting memory of days long past. Humans were the enemy, and the only way for the earth to survive was to annihilate them. His brother's will was absolute. He no longer had the strength to defy him.
He no longer had the desire to defy him.
The wandering took a heavy toll. He couldn't remember his companions or relationships anymore. He didn't remember his name. His brother often called him "the weak half", and it was a tag he grew accustomed to. Sometimes he wondered why he was still alive if he truly was weak. His brother allowed him to roam through the wasteland as a nomad searching for a home he'd never find. He knew he was waiting for something. Waiting for the end of the "beginning". Waiting for the rebirth. Or perhaps just waiting to die. This was his punishment for not being strong enough. This was his curse for not saving the world.
He was destined to wander the wasteland until his dying breath. Then and only then would his brother's will be perfected.
I have absolutely no idea what this is.
Pulchrite