The Flame

I have been sitting here all night, to keep this one small flame burning. I do not grow tired. I do not grow weary. I do not grow thirsty. I gaze at the flame. The flame is beautiful. The flame is everything. The darkness surrounds me. And the wind continues to blow. It sounds tortured. It blows in heavy gusts. But the wind doesn't affect me. It doesn't bother me. I am not troubled by it. Only the flame. The flame is the only illumination, in a world of darkness. The howling of the wind is constant. I am all alone in my vigil. There is no one left to do this. Only me. I will not fail at my task. All are gone. All are dead. I am the only one left.

The Great War took everyone. On both sides. This is now a wasteland. No one is left, only me. Humankind is finished. They are over with. They are no more. They have destroyed themselves. It started with blows, shouts of hatred and rage, fists raised in defiance and in anger. Then came the threats. Then the use of guns. Then bombs. Then rockets. Then nuclear weapons. The horror.

Now it is just me. I alone survived. I believe I was unconscious for a while. Maybe a short time. Maybe a long time. I walked this dead, empty landscape unchallenged. I wore white, a garment loose and flowing and hanging to my knees. This garment was clean. Snow white. But I did not wonder about that. The ground smoking but containing no heat. My feet bare, but unscathed. I did not know where I was going. I had no destination in mind. I just kept walking. No goal, no destiny. Just an urge to keep moving. Keep walking. To where, and for what, I do not know. I cannot remember before. I can only remember now. And I walked.

I looked up as I walked. The sky was a dark purple black. A color this world has never before witnessed. Up ahead there was something white, small cloudy. It was glowing, pulsing in waves. It glowed in waves. I walked toward it, all unknowing. In this dead world, was there life? Was there energy? Was their movement? I headed for that pulsing glow. On this black terrain, it was all. I kept walking, the small glow getting bigger.

At last I stood in front of it. A small white partially translucent bowl with a dancing flame inside of it. The small bowl was sitting on top of a solid white pillar. Round, and plain. Unremarkable. Only the bowl was alive. Only the bowl glowed. The flame burned shades of violet, blue and a black that glowed. It was beautiful. How long I stood transfixed I do not know. I continued to stare, and the flame continued to dance. I may have stood for days or just for a few minutes. I might not ever know. Was it important? I do not know. I may never know. It simply, is.

There was a loud bang. And the ground shook. The sky lit up. It glowed white. And in the white I saw words in black.

"The light is the life. The light is the way. The hope for humanity is in the light. It is all. It is everything. It is. You are the keeper of the flame. In a world destroyed you stand alone. You are the last hope of humankind. You must guard the flame. You are the keeper. Guard it well. Keep the flame alive."

I do not know who I am. I do not know why I am here. I cannot remember anything. I only remember the bombs. The explosions. The ground shaking. Everything blowing up. Everything disinegrating. Then the walking. The walking, and the glow. The bowl. The dancing violet flames. But this is my mission, now. This is my goal. This is my job. I am the last hope. The only hope. I will keep this flame going. I took two steps backwards, and the flame dimmed. I took two steps forward and the flame leaped higher. We are linked. This flame and me. I sat down on the ground close to the pillar. Beneath the bowl. The glowing bowl.

As I lowered myself, I felt two sharp tugs on both my shoulders. I reached behind me with one hand. I felt softness. Something light. I gently pulled this white, light, object around to the front. Small tension on my shoulder. I reached around in back of me with my other hand. I drew my hand around to the front. Same thing. Identical to what I was holding in my other hand. What were these strange constructs? Why did holding onto them cause a small tension in both my shoulders.

There was a loud crack like thunder. Black writing overhead. "Wings," I read. "Those are wings. You are Armageddon. You are the beginning. You are the end. You are the hope."

Still I sit, and watch the flame. The flame is everything. The flame is all. Beautiful. Black and violet and blue. Dancing. Writhing, and I am the keeper. I am the guardian. This is who I am. And still I sit. It is who I am. My name is Armageddon. I am the beginning. I am the end. I am forever. I am always.

I bring my knees up. I rest my head on my knees. The "wings" wrap around me. They shield me. I can still see the bowl, the glow through these wings. The glow comforts me. The wings comfort me. When it is time. I will know. I will know. There will be writing in the sky. The letters will be in black. The writing will tell me what to do. I will know what to do. My name is Armageddon. That is who I am. And I have wings. Wings. And they comfort me in this dead world. With it's blackened, smoking terrain. That and the flame. The flame is forever. It is all.