Old Bard

 Old Bard

An old bard sits upon a broken pillar in the ruins, beneath the quiet night sky.

He tells his stories to the cold wind, singing to the dim, distant moon.

He sings of children sleeping within a fortress under siege.

A lullaby drifts through the silence—

calming them, easing their fear,

guiding them gently… into their final sleep.

He tells a story of how life has rejected him,

and how even death turns him away.

The old bard is not afraid.

He reaches for death like an old friend—

but death… never accepts him.

Time moves forward.

One by one, they rise…

and, in time, one by one, they fall.

Yet the old bard… remains.

These are the Ruins of the Wolf.

A place feared by all—

even the strongest warriors refuse to step within.

And yet, here he is.

Like a ghost,

he sits upon the crumbling pillar—

a relic from when the divine fell.

And still…

death does not welcome him.

Year by year, time passes.

The old bard witnesses empires rise…

and watches them fall.

He sees people lose their homes—

until, in time,

they forget what home even looked like.

And yet…

the old bard never returns to his own.

He speaks to the mountains

of a home far in the north.

He knows the path—

every turn, every stone.

And still,

he does not have the courage to go back.

For the only thing he fears…

is that his home

is no longer the home he remembers.

He speaks to the river

of an oak seed he planted as a child—

how it grew so tall

that it could be seen from distant mountains.

From afar,

he can still catch a glimpse of his home.

But even then…

he never goes back.

The old bard takes a slow, quiet breath.

A wolf passes by…

then another.

And then a pack follows.

They gather beneath his feet,

resting in the shadows of the broken pillar.

Not one of them bares its fangs.

Not one of them makes a sound.

The old bard looks down at them and wonders—

Why do they not attack me?

Am I nothing but a ghost to them?

Or… am I only a memory?

He reaches into his worn cloak

and takes out a single coin.

A coin from his homeland.

A special coin—

minted for the empire’s sixtieth anniversary.

But his home…

never reached sixty.

Not even close.

And still,

the old bard holds onto it.

As if hoping he was wrong—

that the fall never truly happened.

But deep within,

he knows.

He has always known.

The old bard speaks softly to the wolves.

He tells them of the coin—

the coin of the sixtieth year.

A promise he once made to his empire:

that he would return

when the empire reached its sixtieth anniversary—

bringing with him cotton seeds from the south.

No more endless winter.

No more itching from rough burlap sacks.

No more cold nights without comfort.

This coin…

was part of that promise.

Ten were made—

ten coins for ten travelers

who journeyed south.

A vow.

A hope.

Ten…

Nine…

Eight…

Seven…

Six…

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

And now…

One.

Only one remains.

And still,

the cotton never reached home.

The old bard looks at the wolves and speaks—

“Eat me…

and bring me home.”

But the wolves do not move.

They remain still,

silent beneath him.

And then, he remembers—

He was lying on cold stone,

staring into the empty sky.

A circle of vultures above him.

They say vultures take the eyes first.

So he placed the seeds upon his own eyes…

and closed them.

—

He wakes.

Morning comes—

a quiet, beautiful morning

he never asked for.

The old bard takes out the cotton seed.

He looks at it for a long time…

and smiles, just a little.

Then he puts it back.

He lifts his lute,

and begins to sing a lullaby

for the wolves.

—

And this is the wolves’ story:

They always return to these ruins.

They sleep beside the same empty pillar.

It is warm.

It is calm.

And sometimes…

they can hear the sound of a lute—

even when

no one is there.

—

Time passes.

The pack grows smaller.

One by one…

they do not return.

Until one night—

only one remains.

An old wolf,

slow in its steps,

weary in its breath.

The old bard sits upon his pillar,

looking down at it.

He reaches out

and gently brushes its head.

“Do you know what loneliness is?” he asks softly.

“Loneliness is what I am made to be.

I am the emptiness that stretches

when the divine crumbles.

I am the space between the pillars

of halls that shall not be walked.

I cannot be lonely…

for that is what I am.”

The old wolf lets out a gentle howl—

soft… and fading.

And then,

it drifts into its final sleep.

…

And in that same quiet moment—

the old bard disappears.