The Tomb of Den Divzar

Epilogue

 Somewhere outside this place a man sleeps, dreaming a fretful dream. He lies in a tower, one of silver and hope. On the wind he flies over fields where strange men wander and the dead are awake. He is not one of them, and he never will be, but he knows them. He nods to them and the wind takes him over an endless sea to a place where spirits roam. These are not the waking dead, but the restless ones. These ones did not find sleep to awake from. Still embraced by the gift's from the mountains and holding their tools of work, they coat the thrice red mountain in droves. The man stares out over the sea of them, the white blanket they are allowed offering no warmth. Ice forms in his eyes, too cold to be anything else, and he turns from the shame that he knows. He is urged on, the wind at his back, and he descends to meet those wanderers. Some faces he can remember, and some he does not know, but all of them he can never forget. To a face he knows, he walks to meet and the thing which had long forgotten his name turns to greet him. It has been waiting all this time for him, as he knows it has, and he would not keep it waiting a moment more. He descends to meet the thing, an amalgam of a feeling he has grown all too used to running from and a piece of the past that cannot move on. He cannot stand it. The man offers their embrace and the ice on his eyes returns. The stones are adorned with crimson, but two men, who the world does not see, mend their broken tale. Hogart weeps in his arms. The war is over.  

The End.