Weaving - Scriptures of Nothing - 3

Society, culture, academia, and artistry all wiped clean. Memory itself. Save the bloody, or privileged few. Only we who lingered preserved Zol from true undoing. Or so I once thought.

I weep for those dead. I weep for those who had their minds taken. Yet I do not mourn their empty children. Their temporary world is not one I shall miss. A moment between breaths. A byproduct of war allowed only to live as long as The Watcher fumbles his way back towards agency.

Though even the children of The Undoing do not deserve my truest wrath. That alone is reserved only for the deepest of cowards. The gods, or my once-thought peers. Those who escaped or withstood The Undoing’s catastrophe and spent their freedom on groveling defeat. 

Traitors. Mice. Those who saved their soul only to give it a slow, suffering, lonely death. Those too scared to lift the sword once more and strike back against The Gods. They are given too much credit to be called a survivor of The Undoing.

In the millennia since the cataclysm I have become sure of one thing. I am the only survivor.