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He Saw

by Teapot

Teapot An old drabble I wrote back in 2009, to try out a new writing style. Archived here for prosperity.
"This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends"

He could see everything from where he stood. He could see the white-tipped mountains that shone in the sunlight, symbols of the earth's majesty and power, he could see the green speckled fields that fed the world, and he could see the deepest black ocean, barren of life.

He could see the black and the white, and he could see the rich and the poor, and he could see the men and the women, and he regarded them - their happiness, their suffering, their lives and their deaths - just the same.

And he could see the beginning, and he could see the end. He could see war and he could see peace. He could see victories and losses. He could see those who sent men to their deaths, and he could see those who fought their own battles. He could see a man who had a dream, and a man who tore down walls.

And he could see how the world would end. In fact, he was there.

He laughed at the scientists, with their predictions. At the priests, with their lies.

All wrong. All wrong.

He watched, with emotionless interest, as a handful of people plotted the lives - the deaths - of millions of others. Their minds blanked, blocked, not daring to face the consequences of their actions, not daring to face what they were doing, to look their fate in the eye.

And he watched as the lives of the innocent were lost in the white death that followed. He marvelled at how such heat could come from such coldness. How the spectacular light could lead to such darkness. And he walked among the survivors, unseen and unnoticed, and he saw the sadness in their hearts as they buried their loved ones. Killed by someone a thousand miles away.

And, for the first time in milennia, he felt saddened. Saddened that these people had done nothing wrong, yet they had had their lives ripped from them senselessly. Concealed by a pack of lies.

But he could do nothing. So he kept walking. Kept seeing, kept listening. He heard the children, helpless without their parents, thrust into a situation they neither knew about nor wished to be involved in. And he saw the elders, helpless without their children, only too aware of the horrors around them... and their own inability to act.

And so he visited the leaders, safe in their beds. Warm. Uncaring. Asleep. They would wake up tomorrow and continue life as normal, with their shroud of ignorance around them, and their knowledge that they will not befall the same fate as the rest of the world.

All wrong. All wrong.

Because he would finally take action. Cleanse the world of it's evil and it's suffering. Allow all to make a new start.

He could see how the world would end. In fact, he was the one who would cause it. His journey had purpose now. His steps had a purpose to them, a power that stretched beyond time and space.

Soon, he reached the centre of everything. The giver of life and death and the force that kept the universe together. And he extended a hand, older than time, yet youthful and strong. His sleeve, and his robe, were pure white, laced with a material that shone with every colour of the rainbow, and was never the same, changing and forming into intricate and beautiful patterns and spirals, moving at the whim of time itself. His body was long, lean, thin - like his hand, it was aged beyond measure, yet strong.

And, in one swift motion, he struck the source of everything. And the colours on his robe faded into nothing. The patterns that shimmered and swirled grew slow and stopped, and eventually... eventually, there was nothing. The seas and the lands and the mountains disappeared. The people disappeared, with their suffering and pain and ignorance gone with them.

The world ended then.

"Not with a bang, but with a whimper."