Prologue
The Beginning of the End
Author's Notes: So finally I've finally decided to write a long fiction. Except even this is wimpy, it's a collection of postwar darkfiction. So in a sense, a series of oneshot in a universe. Still a collection, however. This is the prologue. Mainly a scenary of the end of the war to create the setting for the coming world. Not terribly eventful.
In the first second, there is a rumble and a roar. After a staccato of unadulterated silence, the world begins to screech. It continues for a day and a night before it begins to deepen. Then, with a mighty low, it ends, leaving behind only the echoes of echoes.
--
The dust curls into a cloud of dark ochre, riding on the wings of the wind, heavily soft and stifling warm. It wraps its follicles around the rays of light seeping through a dying sun. The world is screaming mute, tearing silence with silence and suffocating with mouthfuls of lint. The breeze carries shards of sand, pieces of what used to be, and wields them like knives; they wear away at everything in their path, smoothing and slashing and smoothing again.
The wind is singing, its voice clawing at the air like banshees, mourning with jagged forlornness. With every note of its horrid song a layer of earth lifts itself from the ground and begins its slow ascension to the heavens. They will fall later, of course, but the world isn't ready to let them down yet. It is alive, speaking pandemonium through the quiet waltz that stirs in the myriad of ashes. It is excited, the air dancing with crazed enthusiasm. The power is still there, residual and weakened, but still very much present. As the sky dims with night, the wind continues to wail.
--
In the morning it begins to rain dust and dirt. The pieces collide and pelt onto the ground with a pitter-patter and crumble when they splash. It's a merry procession, with bits of debris bouncing and frolicking before they're covered. When it all ends, the ground is as dry as it had been, perhaps more so, and the sky is a pale shade of brown, like fraying lace. The sun seems to have expanded and stretches its light across the sky, growing brighter with the progression of time. The heavens illuminate and are now aflame with brilliance, glaring fluorescently.
In this atmosphere the dustlings twirl lightly onto the ground. The remains of the powerful magic finally subject to gravity and allow themselves to be drawn into the dirt until all that is left is a soft, transparent wave that thinly coats the ground. It floats there nonchalantly and fades a little with every passing second, until one could blink and wonder if it were ever there.
--
When all is calm again, the people come. They wriggle, crawl, and claw their way up into the light. Their faces are all of the same expression, coated by the same layer of dust. They are all and one, one and all. They are the survivors, dwelling underground for the end to come. It is a terrible miracle they now walk upon, a waste land that's almost alive. The people squint into the sun and wiggle their limbs, testing out their arms and legs like newborn colts, most stumble and some fall. But they are the people, forsaken creatures that will adapt to even the most callous of environments. They will learn to build again; they will learn to live again. And in time, they will learn to remember.
End.