The Death of Our Valley

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. When I was a child, the trees told stories of the Valley thousands of years ago. They told us of the times when the Valley was peaceful, alive. The Valley they knew seems so far away now. My childhood days seem so far away now. The trees tell no stories these days, the wind dances with no leaves.

There weren’t always ghosts in the Valley. Once, there was life. Trees, people, animals, in a loving communion, living together. Every little thing mattered. Now, the life has faded to a whisper. Machines and vigor are the way of the Valley now – the sounds of insects and wind replaced with the clanging of the Empire’s productivity, the love but a fleeting dreamscape spotted in the passing smoke. Now, all that was is spirit. Ghosts haunt this Valley, reminding the Empire of what it pushed away, what it killed. The life our Valley once knew is a ghost now.

There weren’t always faces in the Valley. They’re everywhere, those empty stone faces, those expressions of anguish. In the mountains, in the ground. Their eyes are like daggers, their mouths like chasms. The faces are like no others I’ve seen on a true person. These are faces in the image of the Empire. Their eyes are always watching. Their mouths will swallow you whole.

There weren’t always stories in the Valley. There once was dance and song. Now, we hear tales of the Great Empire and its glorious heroes. Everything feels a little too clean. Everything makes a little too much sense. I wish the trees could’ve sung me one of their songs they spoke so fondly about. I wish their leaves could’ve danced for me. But the trees are gone, and the era of song and dance is over.

There used to be magic in the Valley. A great art; you couldn’t describe it, but you could feel it. It was in the skies, in the dirt, in the love of another. There is no magic now, there is no art. The Empire gives us science disguised as magic. We see through their lies. The listeners of the trees know the truth. We will feel the magic when it returns, I know it.

There wasn’t always blood in the Valley. That was always hard for me to imagine. When the trees told their stories, when they shared their past, I always scoffed when they told me about the blood. I was an arrogant child. Now that the leaves are rotted away, I wish I had taken the time to listen to them. I’d seen blood my whole life. My earliest memories are from the Massacre. I remember the blood flowing in. I remember how warm it felt. I remember our homes collapsing under the weight of the flooding blood. I remember looking up to the Castle, perched high up above the rest of us, and wondering how their walls could be so unstained from their own violence. There’s always been blood in my Valley. I’ve never stepped on a floor that was dry. Sometimes, I try to picture what it was like before there was blood in the Valley.

There were always dragons in my Valley. I’ve never seen a blue sky, I don’t know the clouds that well. Whenever I looked up to the stars, dragons clouded my sky. Their fire is all I’ve ever known. The soldiers of the Empire flew in centuries ago, from across the stars, riding on the backs of their scaled intergalactic monstrosities. From a distant planet, they claimed ours as their own. The might of the dragons has remained unmatched. For as long as I’ve known, this has been the Valley of the dragons.

I know we must fight for this Valley. If you’re reading this, I hope you know it too. Maybe no one will read this, but if anyone does, we are all this Valley has left. There is fire in my Valley. There is an emptiness in my Valley. Will our Valley ever be alive again?