Epilogue: “Ashes of a devastated Land”
The shack stood alone... It´s crooked beams half-buried in the dune as if the desert had tried to swallow it long ago and failed. The roof sagged under the weight of years, patched with strips of hide and brittle reeds. Heat shimmered around it, bending the horizon into a wavering mirage. Beyond the shack, nothing but sand stretched in every direction, a sea without waves, a silence without end. Inside, two figures lived as though the world had forgotten them. The elder, his hair bleached white by sun and time, moved with a kind of ease that belonged to someone who had already made peace with solitude. His hands were cracked, his skin darkened by years of exposure, yet his eyes carried a brightness that refused to dim. He hummed to himself when he worked, a low tune without melody, as if the desert itself were his audience. The younger man, barely past twenty, carried himself differently. He slumped against the wall when he sat, dragged his feet when he walked, and stared at the ceiling as though waiting for it to collapse. His face was sharp, but his gaze dulled by boredom. He had no plans, no direction—only the weight of days that repeated themselves without promise. That morning, the old man stepped outside. The sun was already high, burning the sand into a blinding sheet of gold. He walked to the edge of the shack’s shadow, where the cool line met the heat, and crouched. His fingers dug into the sand, slow and deliberate, until a shallow hollow formed. The younger man leaned against the doorway, squinting. His voice came flat, almost lazy. “Hey, old man… why do you do this every day? The result’s always the same.” The elder chuckled, not looking up. “Ho ho ho, young man. Why the sudden interest? You never ask me anything.” The younger shifted, irritation flickering across his face. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll go. I don’t want you making fun of me.” The old man finally turned, his expression calm. “There’s no need for anger. Bring me some water, and I’ll tell you when I sit near you.” Reluctantly, the younger fetched a clay vessel from inside. He handed it over without ceremony. The elder poured the water into the hollow, watching the sand darken and clump. Then, from the folds of his tunic, he drew a small seed—hard, pale, unremarkable—and pressed it into the damp earth. The younger frowned. He had never seen such a thing. “What was that? What did you pull from your pocket?” The elder brushed his hands clean, rising slowly. “Oh, young boy, let me tell you one thing. For things to be created, someone must have the will to create them. Right now, I’m trying to create life.” He raised his thumb in quiet approval, more to himself than to his companion. The younger’s voice sharpened. “Why create life? Will that change how we live now?” The elder smiled, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. “It certainly will. You’ll see how all things change with time.” They returned inside. The shack smelled faintly of smoke and dried grain. A rough table stood in the center, its surface scarred by years of use. They set out their meal—flat bread, dried meat, a bowl of lentils—and ate at different rhythms. The elder chewed slowly, savoring each bite as though it mattered. The younger ate quickly, tearing through his portion without thought. Midway through, the elder paused, his hand resting on the table. “You know,” he said, almost to himself, “our goals show us paths that might exist. But our actions carve the way we walk to reach them.” The younger stopped, confused. “Why are you telling me that?” The elder shrugged. “Just a phrase I wanted you to know. So you’re more aware of how life works.” The younger laughed bitterly. “What life? The one I have in this shack?” The elder’s laugh was softer, almost hidden. “You have a long way to go, that I can guarantee.” They finished their meal in silence. Then the elder leaned back, his eyes bright again. “So, shall I tell you a story now that we’ve eaten? Unless you’d rather rest.” The younger stretched, shaking his head. “Go ahead. I’m tired of sleeping anyway.” The shack creaked as the wind pressed against its walls. Outside, the seed pulsed once in the earth very faintly. And above them, in a place not truly above, something watched. Not malicious... Not kind... Just present...
“ᚦᛖ ᛖᚾᛞ ᛁᛊ ᚾᛟᛏ ᛟᚢᚱ ᛊᛁᛚᛖᚾᚲᛖ... ᛁᛏ ᛁᛊ ᛟᚢᚱ ᛊᛟᛜ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚷᛟᛞᛊ.”“The end is not our silence... It is our song to the gods.”
