Chapitre 2: PROLOGUE. Human
THE EARTH MOURNED FOR HUMANITY. The world was covered in perpetual darkness. Some said it became a paradise for humans, never to grow old. Others whispered of the earth soon to be swallowed by the sea, a deluge that would flood the lands and touch the skies, granting humans a life above and beyond the ocean waters. A girl spoke of a world that merged with another, set across the seas—a land where only the night was awake.
She had borne witness to it all; she, unlike any other, had seen the world burn. She had watched the sky crumble, the heavens crashing onto paths once trodden by mortal feet. Now, the world sang a mournful dirge to the dead buried beneath its fallen walls. No longer would the laughter of children serenade its whimsical pleas. No longer would human eyes behold a place—a world—where only the imagination dared to wander.
The wildflowers that once peppered the ground had long vanished, carried away by the wind in their crimson forms. She stared long at the hands beneath her feet, grabbing her ankles and crying out for mercy. She blocked out all sounds and pleas, waiting for the earth to claim her as well.
For she was human too.
Born among them, she walked the same path and fought alongside them. Yet, they were the ones who shunned her. The curiosity of the unknown had yet to become a blessing for humanity, so they clung to the familiar, fearing what lay beyond their understanding.
The world was silent, yet it continued.
She danced from stone to stone, following the trail of wind and the flowing stream of a river. The stillness in the air welcomed her—a deafening silence and a whispering roar. The landscape, a canvas of muted colors, reflected the quiet turmoil within her soul, a paradox of peace and unrest. She moved with a grace that seemed otherworldly, her steps a delicate balance between the realms of the living and the dead, a bridge between the known and the unknown.
"Will you welcome them as kindly as you did me?" she asked the world. She asked fate.
For she was only human.
She neither shouted nor cried, for such expressions were futile in the depths of her soul's solitude. Her silence was a shield, a delicate veil that guarded the sanctity of her inner world. She neither ran nor fought, for she knew that battles won on the exterior left scars unseen. Her strength lay in her stillness, her resolve in her calm.
Under the watchful eye of the night, she whispered to the unseen, her voice a gentle breeze that caressed the edges of the unknown. In the embrace of darkness, her words found their way to those who dwelled beyond the reach of ordinary sight, those who existed in the liminal spaces where the tangible and intangible converged.
In the sky above, wings spread wide, a testament to the freedom found in the night. These beings, spirits of the dead, traversed the void not as mythical creatures of old, nor as the monstrous denizens of a hidden world. They were not bound by the wild woods, nor were they governed by the arcane laws that dictated her realm. They resembled humans, and yet, in their ethereal existence, she found that they were strangely free.
These beings, more "human" than the ones who cast her aside, represented a purity of existence, untainted by the prejudices and constraints of mortal society. They were free in a way that she yearned to be, unburdened by the weight of expectations and the chains of judgment.
In her quietude, she found kinship with these spectral wanderers. Their silent communion spoke volumes, a symphony of souls unbound. They were her mirror, reflecting the essence of humanity stripped bare of its earthly trappings. They embodied the paradox of life and death, of presence and absence, a testament to the enduring spirit that transcended the physical form.
In their company, she discovered a profound truth: to be truly human was to embrace the fullness of one's being, beyond the superficial distinctions that divided. It was to find freedom in accepting all that one was, in the silent acknowledgment of the unseen and the unknown.
She saw apparitions, river spirits, humanoid ogres, and objects bursting to life—yet none of them belonged to the world she was born into. They belonged to another—a world across the seas, where death held no claim over souls. It was a place where the cycle of life and death blurred into an endless continuum, a realm where immortality reigned, and the finality of death was but a distant memory.
In this realm where death lost its sting, she pondered, "Can one truly be 'human' when the boundary between life and death is so thin?" The question haunted her, gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. Was it a blessing to be freed from the inevitable end, or was it a curse to linger in a perpetual state of existence?
Through the nights, whispers of longing persisted in her dreams, trailing her every step like shadows of relentless remorse. They afflicted her more than her people, an ethereal chorus that followed her as if she bore the weight of stolen lives. In every passing moment, day or night, she was surrounded by these poignant, hushed voices that refused to grant her reprieve.
It was not the beings of the dead who condemned her. They were her companions, her silent confidants on her journey. They were her family, bound by an invisible thread of shared existence. Yet, with every blessing came a curse, a balance the world desperately needed. For every pain, there was healing, and for every darkness, there was a light.
In her existence, she grappled with the paradox of her reality. The beings of the dead, though more human in their empathy, could not fill the void left by the living. They offered her companionship, yet their presence underscored her exile from the world of the living. She stood at the threshold, a bridge between two realms, forever torn between life and death.
The whispers of longing were not a desire for oblivion but a yearning for release, a hope for a return to a state of pure being. They spoke of a deeper truth, a desire to reconcile the dichotomy of her existence. She sought not the end, but a rebirth, a transformation that would allow her to embrace both worlds.
In the stillness of the night, she found fleeting solace.
The stars, like distant souls, shimmered with a promise of eternity. The moon, a silent guardian, watched over her with a gentle glow. In those moments, she felt connected to the greater cosmos, a reminder that she was part of a vast, intricate tapestry.
In this dance between light and shadow, life and death, she discovered the essence of her humanity. It was not in the cessation of existence but in the continuous journey of becoming, the endless quest for meaning and truth. By embracing her demons, she found the strength to heal, transform, and transcend.
But the demons stood their ground.
Give in, Whisperer.
Wage wars.
Shed blood.
Kill them all.
Leave none alive.
Take your revenge.
Their words were like poison, seeping through her mind, slowly breaking it. Demons and humans, beasts and monsters—what difference was there? The living and the dead, she could not tell. The warmth she felt from the world was slowly fading away, but the dead, always so cold to the touch, somehow emitted the light she needed.
Behind the impenetrable wall of one's soul, she saw only darkness. Humans had taken so much, yet they had given so little. The dead were no more than soulless beings, yet they made her feel that the world was worth living in. They prayed for the lost souls of the living, so she prayed for those who still walked the earth.
"In this world of darkness, may you see everything.
"In this world of colorless lands and skies, may you see the wonders behind it all.
"And in this world of the dead, may you see the miracle of a human life."
Even beyond death, the world welcomes her. And so, she welcomes them.
Humanity had fallen, time and time again. They waged wars, built nations, made discoveries, and forged new paths. They were creators as they were destroyers, demons as they were angels. In their essence, they were a symphony of contradictions, each note a testament to their boundless capacity for both light and darkness. They lived and they died, an eternal cycle of rebirth and decay. Their imperfections, their flaws, were the very brushstrokes that rendered them perfect in their imperfection, a masterpiece of existence, eternally unfinished yet profoundly beautiful.
They were human.
Thus, demons would heed her claims.
And perhaps, the world would be filled with colors once more.
⠀
"I will protect them all, even if my body shatters into nothing, but dust."
— Un nouveau chapitre arrive bientôt — Écrire un avis
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone