A moral parable, told to the youths of Celest.

---------------------

The ancient city was magnificent. Rising from a cradled bowl in the midst of a
tropical, placid island, the view from the battlements was stunning - miles of
azure ocean in every direction, and, at nightfall, brilliant sunsets dripping
ochre and scarlet above the distant mountains. Dawn always broke clear, warm
shafts of gold streaming down to glow off low-lying ramparts, illuminating the
dusky sparkle of the seafoam on sand, and dusk came with a gentle sigh, night
sinking low and comforting over the arches and turrets, while pure, alabaster
lamps slowly gleamed to life, casting a subtle radience on the neatly cobbled
streets and draped garlands of flowers, pretty things that festooned the houses
and gave off a fragrant aroma of spring.

There was never danger in the dark, lamps or no; citizens loved each other, and
often called on the houses of their friends. Crime was unheard of. Death came
only to the old and tired, and, even them, it was simply a peaceful slip into
oblivion, a shift in dreamless sleep to the final gazing. It was an ideal city.

* * *

One day a man arrived.

That day was a sunny, warm one. Womenfolk were gathered around one of the city's
lovely fountains, the tinkling water serving as a merry counterpart to their
melodic laughter. Their husbands watched them, smiling happily as they
took a break from their labours, stretching muscles made strong by the work
needed to maintain such a beautiful place. Children ran with gleeful shrieks in
a game of tag, ducking between the legs of their parents, making mad dashes
about the square. One boy, shorter than most, though still quite eager and keen,
took a tumble, falling head over end in a rolling tilt. His friends hurried over
to ensure he was fine, but his attention was transfixed by
something quite odd, a sight nobody in the city had ever seen before.

A stranger. Not just a stranger, no, but an unkempt, dirty, injured one.
Bloodied bandages bound wounds half-healed and infected, the dirt from travel
seeping into the long, razing scratches. His face was mangled, the clear signs
of abuse written upon his countenance. Beneath his tattered garments, barely
recognizable as clothing, his form evidenced malnutrition. The boy stared at
this man, unable to fathom what he was seeing.

The other citizens edged closer, their own minds stunned by the sight. Such
misery, the adults thought, only halfway able to comprehend the stranger's
appearance.

The man staggered towards the crowd, an imploring look stretching his features.
He extended his hands, drawn and clawlike, while his lips moved silently.
Finally, he managed to force words past his dried and cracked lips.

"They come."

* * *

When he awoke, the stranger found his wounds had been tended to, and his body
gingerly bathed. A kind, matronly woman was gently spooning him cool mouthfuls
of water from the lovely, tinkling fountain. A crowd uneasily watched, worried
and curious about this new phenomenom.

Shrugging the woman off, the man painfully pushed himself up, stumbling to his
feet to rest in a staggered stance against the fountain's smooth, carved stone.
In a hoarse, rasping voice, he commanded the attention of the cityfolk, weaving
a terrible story.

"Invaders," he explained, were beyond the waters, closer, moving closer - their
movement, as he described it, most peculiar, almost unfathomable...like a cloud,
he insisted, coiling, seeping onwards. "Slaughter," he described, death beyond
nightmares. "Greed," he croaked, his words laden with sorrow, his eyes unfocused
and distant as he recalled the last memories of his village, plumes of smoke
shot through with the bloodied screams of his kin. "Corruption," he coughed,
barely able to continue. The nightmares...broken, twisted, tormented...

Pleading, he warned the citizens to prepare. "They come," he repeated, his face
twisted into a ravaged mask of misery. "They come."

* * *

The poor innocent folk had little comprehension for this man and his disturbing,
ugly stories. His face frightened them, his words made them ill with confusion.
They had no understanding of pain, violence, invasion. Tentative, they offered
him food and more water, before slowly drifting apart to return to their
business, their heedings of his story as insubstantive as smoke wisping in the
wind.

Slowly the days passed. Citizens reluctantly fed the man, leaving parcels of
food near the fountain, studiously avoiding the area except for that one task.
As the sun rose and fell, and the stranger still did not leave, they became more
unnerved, troubled by the odd man and his fantastic story. Finally, they began
to hint to him.

"Why do you stay?" they asked, glancing down the road that led to the gates.
"You are a stranger, you should return to your land." They would prod, polite,
but insistent. "Why do you stay? Go to your family! Find your friends!"

The only answer they ever received was the same, sober, flat reply: "There is
nothing, now."

* * *

Eventually the nervous city had enough. Gathering in a seldom used town hall,
they agreed, in murmurs and roars, that he had to go. One brave citizen
volunteered to force him out, and they bedecked the hero in garlands and
wreaths, pressing gifts into his hands.

The man walked the streets towards the stranger's square, stalwart in the face
of discomfort. As he approached the lamp-lit fountain, he gathered his thoughts,
preparing the grand (yet firm) speech the city had decided on. The
man forestalled him, simply nodding and rising.

"You wish me gone now." It was not a question, simply an acknowledgement of
truth. With a shrugging gait and a soft sigh, the stranger began to trudge to
the gates. "Gods help you all," he whispered, as he left the city, his steps
vanishing into the plains beyond.

The citizens celebrated, the burden lifted.

* * *

As if heralded by the departure of the stranger, unusual things began to happen.
The city, content to sink back into their complacent little world, did their
best to rationalize the changes they began to see. When they found the oceans
rising, lapping higher, and with more force, against their shores, they thought
it a seasonal phenomenon. When smoke and crimson glows hung over the eastern
horizon, streaking the sunsets and lighting the nights, they assumed a fire
raged along the distant shores. Clouds, lurking low, were dismissed as poor
weather. The man's warning, disturbing and unfathomable, was ignored.

* * *

The next week, the promised invaders came.

The city was defenceless, having never fought in war in memory. They huddled in
basements and sewers as, above them, the ruthless army cut down any they found.
Screams shattered the peaceful silence, while the elegantly cobbled streets
funneled rivulets of blood and muddy gore to the cisterns below, the drained
life dripping on those who cowered in hiding, until the bodies choked the
gutters and staunched the streams into a clotted knot of death. Cracks and thuds
pierced the groans of the dying, as the raiders quickly moved from house to
house, plundering the city of its lovely goods, snatching up art and trinkets,
raping the populace of their beloved treasures. Tremendous blasts and dull
roaring thunders thrust through the din at irregular intervals, as the stores of
supplies - food, tools, commodities - were torn apart, walls ripped down to
allow for hasty reaving. And then came more...-

And then all was silence.

* * *

After days of starved solitude, the hidden emerged, surfacing to find the face
of their world desolate and broken. "Why!" they screamed that first terrible
day, clutching the dead bodies of their phratry, howling at the blank, empty sky
that pressed down on them with a hunger. "Why?" they whispered in the dead of
nearby nights, holding each other close as nightmares of their failure battered
at them. "Why," they wondered in the months that came, wincing through the pain
of labouring to rebuild their lives.

And rebuild they did. There was beauty again, yes, but there was also memory -
aching anguished memories drove them, urged them to learn, taught them to never
again drop their guard. Rememberance hounded their tired feet, as they migrated,
searching and scouring for a new home, a place that would house a mighty
kingdom, safe and strong, a place where they could be safe with the wisdom
survival had granted them. Recollections haunted them, and they grew strong -
and their city rose.

* * *
The city was magnificent. Rising from the skirts of boggy marshlands, it,
nonetheless, commanded the eye. Overlooking the Sea, the view from the
battlements was stunning - miles of harsh, unforgiving waters to the east, and
sturdy, fortified roads branching outwards, and, at nightfall, brilliant sunsets
dripping ochre and scarlet above the distant mountains. Dawn always broke clear
over the thick stone walls, warm shafts of gold streaming down to glow off the
rough stone facing of the strong ramparts, and dusk came with a gentle sigh,
night sinking low over the arches and turrets, held at a distance by bright,
vigilant torches. Sentries manned the walls, their hourly cry sending fingers of
reassurance through the minds of the citizens. "All is well," they would shout.
"All is well."