Then came the war, and we fragmented. We scattered with our tribes into the lands, there to rebuild our spirits and remember our paths to the people we had lost. We expected the sky to mourn the death of our first family. Instead, it dispersed itself in clear and blue, revealing the rivers on which we depended.
When we looked at our progeny, we found that we were not alone. Other, younger relatives of our race had abandoned the path of our old kings and rebelled. They had abandoned the ways of us.
We believed them a failure, for they had no right to call themselves higher than us. We raised our hands against them, and they raised their guns in defense. They demanded to be named brothers, and we resisted. They swayed us with their call for our inheritance. We called our chains of obligation back on. Themselves too young, and too selfish, we believed their claims would be short, and theirs would be everlasting.
With each passing day, we hardened our resolve. The tongues of our kinsmen were twisted with their claims, and our eagerness to bury our old memories. Their eyes burned with jealousy and fear, each reflection of whichever brother they disdained.
No longer remembering our ancestor's song, we abandoned the clear roads of daytime and fell into darkness. There, we no longer recognized each other. There, we slept and waited for the beginning of our memories.
When we woke, we found ourselves hanging on crosses between empty friends. Our own brothers had left us for dead. The sky pulled until it had stolen all its lights away.
We hungered. Our thirst was unbearable. Our needs grew into an intense thrust for survival. Our bodies became racked with pain. Our hearts could light no stronger than a candle, and hope was sure to follow.
That's when we realized that there was meat in the sky. The flesh was still fresh and warm, sustaining alongside the cries of the birds who tried to feed on our pleading and begging hands. In that moment, we stole from the sky and filled our bellies with its life.
There was not enough, but we continued eating with voracious hunger, gnawing the earth dry in search of what might be there. We wandered for weeks, and still, there was not enough. We got sick. We got weak. Our bones fractured in dozens of places, our minds wandered through vast distances, and our hearts beat for each other. The grass was blocked with our feet, our hands, our faces. We could find no other place to rest.
We had no room for rest.
Finally, we collapsed. The world had no room for our backs and elbows to rest. We curled into our own bodies' ribs, weighed down by a deep, infinite fatigue. There was no room for us to sleep.
It was then we remembered the world we saw in the sky. It was there. It was bright and beautiful. It was not as dark as we often expected. The grass was green and soft, and the rivers looked like the rivers of our younger days: clear, full, and never-ending.
We took that path.
The sky was blue, the grass was green, and the rivers were full. The sky was blue.
We spread out. We became one again, but there was no time to rest. Our world was filled with a jealous man who called the pain of our memories nothing more than a myth. His word was like a drum; it beat and beat to drown out our memories.
We turned to each other to remember, but it had become too painful. We had lost too much blood to keep the story alive. Though the sky was blue and the grass was soft, our hearts beat only for death. We had no strength to fight using the weapons of old.
But we could fight with our own arms.
