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The World Is Quiet

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The world is quiet, now (we do not speak of heroes, of mortals come and gone, we dare not we dare not we must not) and there is no war. This is a good thing.

There is food on the tables and there are jobs in the factories, flowers in the children’s hair and song in the air (and monsters on the street but we do not think of those). These are all good things.

The king of Midgard (earthearthearth) rules from a fortress in the skies, but isn’t ever there. Instead he shifts from place to place, from form to form, watching over with (anger) benevolence and correcting those who must be corrected, granting them eyes of brightest blue shining and empty yet ever full, his gift.

History is a different subject to the days before his glorious ascension. It is the tale of his mighty victory over the warmongering fools who dared doubt his kindness and beneficence, those few who believed him mad for wanting to free humanity from its own self-doubt, its vicious cycle to self-destruction. One man, who once wore a flag, stands at his side (the others were made examples of, no-one speaks but all remember)

(nobody speaks of stitched up lips, of monstrous children and brutal punishment)

(nobody thinks of tricks and mischief, of chaos old and growing)

(nobody can bear to remember)

We were made to be ruled.

This is a good thing.

The world spins on, the void uncaring.