The Weeping Wanderer

How ironic that he should wander here of all places. He had stumbled across many ruins of lost civilizations over the years of his self imposed exile. The ruins of civilizations that he himself decimated. For the most part, he had never felt much more than a pinch of guilt in the back of his heart when he found them. But this was no ordinary city. After all, this is where he was raised. 

Piles of stone, eroded and smoothed but the wind whipped sand, were recognized immediately. These stones were once a great archway, carved into the shape of the mother goddesses, to welcome any weary traveler into the safety of the settlement. The faces could still be identified with a squint. As a child, he had spent so many evenings with friends racing from the arch to the fountain in the city center. There was no doubt in his mind that if he entered the ruins he could still navigate the way to his mother’s hut off of muscle memory alone. The thought choked him with anxiety.

He did not recall destroying the city, but he knew that he was to blame. His armies rolled across the dunes, burning everything in sight. There was no way he could be present for every scene of destruction. He had far too many matters to attend to when he was king. 

Yes, that was right, wasn’t it? He had been a king once. For a time. Not a ruler by blood, but by power. A position seized but his mighty strength and held by his unrelenting fury. The people deserved a cruel ruler, or so he thought at the time. Had they not betrayed, imprisoned, and tortured him? They hadn't. He knew that now. Only one man betrayed him. But only one betrayal is needed to forge a monster, if you allow it. And he had allowed it. A whole country had been dealt his wrath because a single man had ruined him, his own uncle. He had so much to prove then, so much hate to release. He would have scorched the entire globe if he had not been stopped and dethroned. 

King. A title that is simultaneously familiar and foreign to him. He had been a king, but that was a long, long time ago. Now? He was old. His haggard face grown even more decrepit than the rest of him thanks to the constant barrage of searing sun. Silver, mangy hair spilled from his face wraps and hood. A man once capable of splitting mountains now required a staff to hobble from place to place. Once a king, now a vagabond in a patchwork cloak.

The history of this village has very likely been lost to the world, but not to him. He lived it. He had climbed the steps to the lavish palace, left abandoned after his people overthrew the previous overlord and commander. He roamed the markets, peeked into the bath houses, and even worked as a potter for a year. He once knew these streets so well that you could blindfold him, tell him the name of any family, and he would be able to walk right to their home without falter.

But what of its final days? He had not been here for those. The blood that was spilt may not be visible, but it is here if you dig deep enough into the sand. The splintered and bleached bones of people he once called ‘neighbor’ still lay just beneath the rubble. The final chapter in this place's history was not seen by him, but he can feel it. Feel it in the muscles of his trembling body. A stranger would only hear the whistle of gusting wind, but within his ears it was the dying screams of the people who had raised him. The people he blindly butchered.

Why had he done it? How could he have been so foolish? So arrogant? Why did the world have to suffer simply because he suffered? How could he let such petty hatred blind him into committing genocide? 

Yes, if a stranger came here now they would find none of this history. They would only find more desert ruins and a terribly old man, weeping on his knees.