The Idealist

This old ramshackle hut lay witness to years of toil. Thick tomes lined the shelves of a broad, decaying wooden cupboard that found itself in the corner of the room by the windowsill. A small wisp of cobweb touched the top of the shelf, and stretched all the way to a corner of the ceiling.

Patches of old paint were peeling off, exposing the underlying wooden wall to the scrutiny of newly entrant sunlight. Patches such as these peppered the rest of the four walls, lending the room a sense of antiquity.

An old creaky chair lay occupied beside a broad wooden desk that had seen better days. Its legs were crumbling, and it seemed a matter of days before it would collapse too, like all other furniture in the room.

Perhaps one could say that the room was a relic of centuries past, a false remnant of an old age of magick and lore. One might go on to suppose that the room could be put to better uses, and chivalry of our ancestors might be replaced by the bright flame of youth, that would burn bright till the next dawn, when the cycle would repeat itself.

One could never be further from the truth.

There was a sense of permanence about the room which one would have to purposely overlook. For in all its grim and musty condition, the room protected the most precious gifts the races had today. Without them, men would have surely descended into self-annihilation, into a dystopian world where mothers would be cast upon the streets like rabid mongrels, children would be killed for game, and men would be taken slaves to do an overlord’s bidding.

These gifts lay in the form of an ancient man.

White robes covered his thin and ailing body, that had withstood too much over the past millennia. His back arched as he tried to bend over a book, poring over its details and adding to his vast reserves of knowledge. His white beard was thinning, as was the hair on his head. As more sunlight pored in, his eyes glinted with kindness, though they could see very little. His forehead wrinkled, as he squinted to read the runes that lined the pages of the thick red tome that lay before him. Lone wisps of hair stood out on end at his temples, and ran down to join his thinning beard.

Slowly, he lay back and rested, his back lining the lining the chair, kissing its soft, aged wood. His lips curled slowly into a smile, as he began an incantation. He lifted his right hand and began to swirl his shriveled fingers, which began a rhythmic dance. The room slowly seemed to come alive, and the sun seemed to shine brighter. Slowly a white tendril emerged from the tip of his index finger and began to form patterns on the wall. A few more tendrils branched out, shining steadily, before they began to weave into each other. More tendrils burst forth from his fingers and palm, and began to weave furiously.

Finally, they all rolled into a small white orb, which began to hum rhythmically. A small delicate wing stuck out of the orb, glittering in the sunlight.

And slowly, a dove emerged.

She fluttered around happily, cooing in delight, before perching on the old man’s shoulder. He reached out with his left hand and slowly stroked her head, laughing delicately to as to not scare her away. Warmth spread through his chest, as he patted her neck. Then she took off, eager to explore the old bookshelf and the wonders that it held.

Suddenly, he felt a tug at his chest, and his vision was propelled into a different realm. He saw flashes, a face, a flag, and blood. He was standing on top of a ledge. Soldiers pored onto the field, blades held high in the sky, a loud roar upon their lips. The marshes lay soaked with blood, as men fell beneath blade and bone.

His vision flashed again, and before settling onto a butcher’s shop. A cow was being dragged away from her calf, was trying to run to his mother. But they were both held back. The calf was beaten by men in black masks, till it cowed into submission. The mother was then dragged away, squealing and shrieking while her baby was whisked away into the darkness. The last thing he caught was the glint of a blade.

His vision ended, and sight faded back. He was now utterly spent, his chest heaving up and down.

The dove lay dead, in a heap on the floor, and was slowly melting away into the air.

Tears filled his failing eyes, as he quietly wept. His chair creaked, and the pages in the tome thinned.

This old ramshackle hut lay witness to years of toil. Thick tomes lined the shelves of a decaying wooden cupboard, begging for deliverance.

In the corner of the room, an old man wiped away his tears, and continued to toil away.