Blade Peak

Erik Masters

Ó 1999, 2000

There was the mountain.

It stood alone, magnificent yet submissive, bragging and humble, barging through and allowing to pass. Many, many trees covered its huge, round expanse. It was approached by all sides, yet from nowhere. It saw bright, sunny days, and dark, stormy nights.

But none as dark, or stormy, as this one. And it was noon.

A lone figure stood atop the mountain, looking out across the island, long, green-black cloak flapping furiously in the breeze. One foot rested upon a rock, the actual peak of the mountain, a foot or so above the other. Sparkling green eyes of no color ever seen before looked sadly upon the island.

It had been a long time since he had stood upon this peak. He searched now for towns, cities, houses, anything to remind him of the past and home. He waited for a call from his friend to let him know the food was ready. He listened for the familiar call of his favorite bird. He tried to feel the life of the island, a life that had been so invigorating.

But there was none. There were no cities, no houses. His friends were gone, he made his own food. The birds he had so loved to listen to were no longer there. Trees covered the mountain, but they were dead, if not hacked to pieces or cut down. The lakes that had once shone so brilliantly in the afternoon sun were now dark, if not gone, too. The life of everything on the island, the feeling of it, was gone. It would never be seen again.

All there was, all that could be, was the retched, filthy land, plagued by disease, war, and greed. Anyone alive had destroyed themselves. If not, they were destroyed by fighting, or sickness, or talking the life of someone, something else.

The lone figure stood upon the peak of the mountain, looking for things that were long gone. Slowly, he reached for his side. With one hand he pulled a sword, shining brightly in contrast to the dark storm clouds above and around him. It was not a sword to ever be equaled. Never had such a blade been wielded.

The figure looked at it, remembering a time when such weapons were obsolete, inferior to other things for war.

He looked at the shining blade, then slowly turned it, facing downwards towards the mountain. Raising it above his head, he plunged it halfway into the hard dirt, making sure that it would never be able to leave the spot. Raising back up, he took another look at the once lively land, and turned.