Without A Sound

Prologue

There was something about plants. Something about the radiant beauty of a well-managed garden. About the way that they whispered to him.

As he walked down the stretch of dirt lining paths along the bottom of the greenhouse, looking over the bountiful growth coming from the end of an especially sunny summer he felt complete. They hung elegantly over him like a lush forest and his fingers traced along one of the dangling leaves. Concave fingers danced across the fauna, brass and relaxing from their almost constant job of digging into the earth, whether it be digging a new hole for seeds or for gathering dirt to bring into the greenhouse.

It seemed that there was always something that needed to be done in here, but that gave him something to live for.

His dark tan canvas had been stained from this. Grass stains, dirt stains, even with washing nightly he couldn't keep the remnants of his labor off of his fabric. Yet it was somewhat soothing as well. Constantly enwrapped in the smell of the earth and the smell of fresh life. Sometimes he stared outside the greenhouse and would remember why he was so lucky. A single building filled with plants in the midst of a barren land that had been destroyed. Yet he seldom troubled himself with this unless it was to scout for Beasts before going out to gather collected water.

He didn't particularly enjoy going out there unless he needed to. There wasn't anything out there like there was in here.

Yet he had already spent all day watering and tending to the garden and now spent the rest looking as his harvest. Bright flowers, luscious vegetables, things that he grew just so they could grow. They had no need in life other than to live. He was almost running out of room and wondered if he would have to use the upper shelves to start housing more. It was difficult to get there and he expected carrying dirt there would be just as difficult. Yet he wanted to expand his indoor forest and this seemed like the best solution to do so.

If he couldn't go outwards, he would just go upwards, and stretch into the sky.

He fixed his long, patched scarf that was wrapped twice around his neck and hung down nearly to his hips. It was patched in numerous places, a deep green with striking brown and tan patches of the wrong fabric. It covered the snaps on his front and kept dirt off of them somewhat. He also wore an equally patched jacket. Other than that he only held a wide brimmed hat upon his head that kept the sun off. He enjoyed the sun immensely, but when it got into his eyes it became a hassle. It was made of leather and a bit more floppy then one would want, but it did well enough.

He worked very hard to be as efficient as possible. He didn't have time to waste; the plants wouldn't wait on their Cultivator.

He physically was very tall and very thin, his legs long and his torso narrow, with long, slender hands. Every part of him was gaunt and he loomed like a waif. He wasn't sure why he was created to be like this and, honestly, it made work somewhat difficult when involving carrying heavy things, but the height also assisted with harvesting and tending plants. He still would harvest from the plants and found the season of such oddly strenuous. Slicing open the produce with his thin scythe and gathering the seeds before sealing the rest into jars.

It was almost as though he was created to do this, yet who would create something made only to create?

The nearby shed was full of mason jars, or had been, and now they steadily ran out. The obsession to grow and create was one of joy and fulfillment. The one to package and seal food that he would never need wasn't the same. It was unrecognizable. Yet he obeyed and continued to work. It was a simple life, but he was happy with it. He never felt alone. Then again, he knew he wasn't alone out here, he knew there were others. One day as he was out gathering small stones and dirt, looking for more fertile soil that he carried in a small woven basket on his back.

He always seemed to have an excuse to work these days and here was another job needed doing.

He had his scythe then too; a long, crooked piece of wood with a sharp blade jutting out of the tip, more practical for harvesting than for attacking the Beasts outside. Either way, he had merely been wandering around when they had appeared out of nowhere. He had to quickly hide so he wasn't seen, but it was not too difficult. They weren't paying much attention. One was slightly taller than he was and largely built, lots of strength and muscle. The other was shorter and had sharply slanted optics.

This was the first time that he had seen others. He didn't wonder why they looked different, he just wondered why they were out there.

He wasn't scared of them; on the contrary it was quite relieving to see others, but he felt unable to approach. The shorter looked upset at something and his mouth moved as though he was speaking, ranting about something, and looked disturbed. Though he knew he couldn't very well introduce himself and instead went on his way. He was, after all, virtually mute after everything. They had appeared too suddenly for him to be expected to introduce himself to a couple of strangers.

He hadn't heard them appear.

Other than the whispering of the plants as they brushed along his fabric. Danger was a hassle in these times as the Beasts appeared so suddenly and would come upon him without a single groan. Yet he knew their weak spot, he watched their movements, and he learned. It was still too dangerous not to watch his back. He couldn't remember exactly how it had happened. Maybe it was when a mine had gone off too close, but the shrapnel had only damaged his leg a little and that just needed an adequate patch. It was right around that time that everything failed.

His world was dead silent.

His other senses had grown in retrospect; he actually learned about tasting and when he had a bountiful harvest he would suckle upon the sweet fruits of his labor and gratify in the taste. After all, these were his plants and they loved him, and he loved them. They lived and breathed when nothing else did and leaving was out of the question. He couldn't leave them; they needed him too much to feel justified in abandoning them. Especially to abandon them to the cold world outside of bland colors and dead roots.

Maybe that was why he took refuge in the quiet life of greenery.

As he caressed over one of the leaves of a healthy tomato plant, counting the green bulbs and guessing how many seeds would be produced, he knew that even with this barren world he was content. He had created his own garden and to him not even Babylon itself had a garden as lush and beautiful as his own. So he would live content in his greenhouse and content with the silence that was only interrupted by the whisper of the plants for as long as he pleased.

But even the Hanging Gardens fell.

Without a sound.