The place was like no other, nestled among the Pyrenees, the majestic peaks blurring the line between Spain and France. No king could claim her, she was stronger than any single man. A type of Eden to those that knew her. A land where a mans stars were not set. It had a serenity, a peace of heart; love to be experienced. Brother sun never shone so bright above another, but his brightness was beginning to fade, the skies darkened.
A storm was gathering, upon her, an unclear disturbance. A blackness of heart, a malice unchained, unbridled, loosed in the hearts of men. Evil crept upon Eden, it’s feeling was strong, though uncertain to the feeble hearts of men. Men can only sense, feel with their hearts, a great hazard upon them. Though they know not what it be, the threat was real. Grey skies were turning blacker by the day, tyranny upon them. It was rolling hard upon the shores as the tide. What was once a small village, grew with the port that fed it. The sea was life blood, and her salt it’s sustenance. The wind blew the sea air through the land, it was stinging to the skin, and in the season, bitter cold. The land was a white expanse, and lacking the life that in summer this gentle Eden bore.
Eden had been lost so long ago, but man is inherently good, and had found a way to see to it’s return. Men call this land the Languedoc, named as their method of speech. It was a place where Gentile and Jew could engage in commerce together. The outside world forbade this, but their conjecture bore no weight here. It was a new Eden, a church of Amore: love. Eden was once lost, and Atlantis after her; the new utopia could be felt slipping through the fingers of Atlas. The giant of lore held the fate of the world, but it’s load grew heavy upon his shoulders. Though death would come for them, they bore a fate worse than death. From whence did it come? What man brought it upon them? It surely was a man, for though blemished in ideal, god would not bring this upon them. Though misguided, he would not punish those that loved. What visage then shone upon them?
The sunlight lightly peaks over the countryside of the Languedoc, bright oranges and yellows streaming down. Elegant, though falling like tears from heaven, mourning the ebbing storm that crept upon her. In days past, the sky and sun’s golden beams felt brighter, more full of life. Now, it awakens of a pale blue hue, one that did not signify difference from any other, but a slowing settling morbidity. The ground had begun to thaw, though life had not yet returned. The winter had been of bitter cold and with the malaise of the day, it had returned. The snows were still deep, though it had melted from the road, oft traversed in the commerce of the day. It was a strange unsettling looking road, often bustling along bringing gold and silver to fill the storehouses of the city. Men could not recall when it changed, but they were just aware it had not always been like this, empty, desolate. It shone a ghostly visage of what it once was.
In the spring the land on either side of the Via Aquitania was a bright green, pleasing to the eye. The road existed from many days past, when this land was known as Gaul, the Roman frontier. It was a land Rome could never chain, its people too rough, self-reliant. Rome did not understand their ways, and their strange Druid religion. She did not seek to understand, but rather to conquer what confounded the imagination. However, after brutality, Rome extended a strange olive branch to those that it subjugated: citizenship. Many found it too enticing to continue their perseverance; Gaul did not. It was a people so hardy, just as this road, rough and well-preserved. The road had been built to long surpassing its builders, stronger than their own political whims.
The Romans had removed the trees long ago, and though they could be seen in the distance, the expanse was wide and desolate. Their distant skeletons laid a somber tone upon all. The dreary winter was fading, but its depravity still held an icy grip upon the landscape. The sun would bring life back, as if it had gone on holiday, just a the previous season was death. Winter, a time of merriment, though men freeze from the harshness of the season. It seems so odd that a season that brings such hope exists in such bleakness. It is in the winter that the days seem endless, and in lacking hope, brother sun returns to warm the world from its frozen chill.
As no other they appreciate brother sun, well aware that it is a gift from the light bearer, Apollo. Apollo, the god of earth brings them light. Though the god of sky created their spirit, it is Apollo, the light bearer, the god of earth, that imprisoned them to a body. They patiently wait to return to the stars and to brother sun. Each star like a stepping stone in a mystic river leading through the expanse to brother sun, to the god of spirit. This body a prison, imprisoning the eternal spirit of man. They imagine two gods, one of the body and one of the soul. What does a human value more than soul? It is an invaluable possession, one which lost never to be returned. A man’s body can be taken from him, but his soul is his most glorious possession. The soul is the only unique definition of man, Apollo knew he held their most valuable possession.
It is in this duality they are fated to one day suffer. Though it makes them men of love and of wisdom, the world is not one that protects them. The light bearer pushes them to pain, though they try to love, it is incomplete, a cycle broken. The light bearer wills to keep them imprisoned upon this dusty rock upon which they dwell. He will not let them escape to the god of spirit and to brother sun. Though their sight be on God, men would bring them to suffer. Man is imperfect, ill-fashioned in his shortsightedness. A great storm would come upon them in the days come, but would it swallow them or would it allow them to live. As in the last minutes before death, God was beckoning them with a chance: come back to him. Though they loved perfectly, their doctrine was imperfect, and in the hearts of man and the princes of the earth, that would be all that matters. Though it stemmed from love, it grew wild in control, and there was no time to free man only to surrender. There was but once chance, as one last breath from a laboredly heavy chest. Eden had existed but a short time, but as a butterfly, the life force of the perfect cannot last long. For, it is the shortness of breath and time that makes the perfect so valuable and glorious. For if it was as common as man, then what value would it hold. It is for the same reason he places no great value upon dirt. As long as their is man, there will be a fresh supply of dirt with loss of life.
There would be hope, but to snatch the hope man must reach out. Without a hand to move, man cannot expect such a chance to be given. It is as a butterfly leaves its cocoon, a small place not to show its beauty. To show its beauty to the world, Eden must first persevere. If it not be on earth, then in the New Jerusalem of heaven. Though men crusaded to bring Jerusalem back to earth, man could not possess what was god’s. Man cannot obtain such holiness, only expect that god bestow it in his mercy. The men of this fading Eden knew this, and so would not kill their brothers. It had been eleven centuries since I lord returned to heaven. Would he glory the murder in his name? Women lost their husbands their sons; their sustenance. There were those that wanted this war, this loss of life, the men of Eden did not. They remained in the homes, their lands, but Rome was not happy. How could she be unhappy with men that only wanted peace? Rome had not calculated for peace, only the establishment of a new kingdom, in place of the Saracens inhabiting Jerusalem.
How could man not long for such a place of wonder? So very few achieved such a closeness to God. They lived once, the were a wondrous people, full of love for their brother. Their roads now are empty, like veins without a heart. If you listen closely, they will tell you of great beings that once walked their cobblestone ways. The breathed, bled and fought to save their civilization; a noble cause. It is in the end that love conquers all, but for a time the fire can be made smolder; timbers smoking without a flame. Oh muses, sing of the troubadours that once graced these lands, though their time was short they fought for every breath.
What was broken once was whole, even Atlantis drifted below the waves. The waves like the years, swallow the majesty of a place so sacred, a people so wise. Wisdom never dies, but is left to more than the minds of men. When unwritten, a story is lost; escaping the minds of men.