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Steady hands brought up walls of wind around this fruitless land.
And they could not say I didn’t protect them.
Columns of air--- they rose up in jagged spires, they formed safety and purity and kept out the horrors of the land beyond. My responsibility was within my nation, for I was a God, and they were like small ants that I sought to protect. I would hold my palm out and they would crawl, blessed, onto my skin.
Humans were strange and fragile.
I gave myself a name--- Decarabian, and I observed them, looking down at life itself.
They would love me. They would love me, and they did not know it yet.
My city flourished. I watched it age. My hair was swirling shades of blue and gray and black, silver slicked, pulled back along my head, and pale eyes glimmered as I stood atop my observatory. The wind was howling, now, echoes of wolven cries that battered the crops that were rooted into the ground. And I smiled, faintly. Every farmer must have his bad season, to balance the good. Monstadt was a controlled environment, like a terrarium, teeming with life.
During the day, I would watch them work.
Those farmers in the fields would till their land with strong arms, they would speak back and forth in low, hushed whispers. And always--- they would glance back at my tower, eyes meeting the observatory roof, trying in vain to stare into the murky black glass to see what was beyond.
I always loved it when they did that.
They were looking towards their savior--- towards their leader. Grateful hearts and growing minds.
They loved me, and I knew this to be true.
Love.
It was a strange and foreign word on my tongue, even as I met her for the first time.
Her name was Amos, and she was different from the rest of the people below my tower. She had a will of iron, and flowing hair that leaked like molten metal down her back. A hunter, I had watched her pull back her bow, string taut and biting. She had once considered me her enemy.
Now, in the quiet calm of my chambers, I held her with steady hands, and she told me in a low murmur what she dreamed of.
Ocean waves and sand.
And I told her of the shores of land beyond us, where sea foam gathered in the currents of the sea.
Lush forests and land, boars playing in berry bushes.
And I told her that I would take her someday, to a place she had not seen beyond the storm barrier. Forests grew underneath the blizzards, and trees had crept their fingers over the tops of mountains and through the dips in valleys.
She dreamt of a towering spire.
And my observatory was her dream come to reality.
I had kissed her, in the way that humans do. My hands had been gentle when I held her close, when our eyes traced the stars and ran along the edges of constellations. The sky had been stormy, but we had peered past the swirling clouds.
This must be love, I thought, as I shut the doors to my tower. A barrier, like the hurricanes that raged outside, between Amos and what would seek to hurt her.
And my gaze had drifted from her. Always down to the farmers, who had seemed tired. Always back to the fields, which were withering.
I folded a flower between my hands.
Its stem broke, and its petals fell gently to the ground. I sat atop an old hill, and the grass was not lush under my palms as I pressed them to the earth. The world was yellowing, where I was, the wall of wind and sleet had wrung the life from Monstadt. My eyes were downcast, and I looked at the rotting, gnarled trees that stood like sentries in my once-beautiful city.
My mind wandered.
What was… Windblume?
It was never a flower--- it was a dream.
And my world had become a nightmare when the fires had ripped through the city.
The stone I had carved with care, those pillars that rose from the center of the land like swords plunged into soil, were toppling. Screams rose from the carnage, smoke filled the lungs of my people, it stung their skin and coated their arms. Torches were clutched in shaking hands. A woman--- with hair red like the sun, had led a march of rebellion down the street. A man with braided black hair and a whisper of the wind flew alongside her.
My creation was alight. The insects had set their homes ablaze, their eyes had screamed fury and frustration, they crawled from my palm and stung my skin. Boots thudded against the brick, lines of fire were left like drawings on the sides of churches.
In my observatory, I sank against the wall, and clutched at my hair with whitened knuckles.
My people love me, I had breathed, panicked, like a mantra. My people love me, as I love them.
This is what love is.
The mob had reached the wall of air.
This is what love is.
Atop a towering spire, a woman had taken aim. Her finger rested against the string, taut and final.
This is love.
Her aim was not false. I could always tell when arrows were Amos’.
Its jagged edge pierced my heart, and the storm that surrounded my beautiful city was ripped away, a veil of lightning and clouds, a shield of thunder and hail. My blood stained trembling fingers, and I wondered, faintly, why I could hear cheering.