The Bridge

A legend is told, that once there was a tall, old man. The landscape around deeply scared, ridges reaching down to hell, it was said. Black stoned ground, burned by a past war, it was believed. A cold blowing wind that whistles the screams of horrors of the past, it was whispered, and all of it moved and changed, turning the land into a deadly trap. The only thing that never changed was the old man on the bridge.
The crosses that had once ornate the flanks of the old construct have turned upside down or fallen like dead birds down into the depth below. The bridge once in a burning red had turned to black, green and finally white. Each change was a herald of an upcoming doom. The only thing that never changed was the old man.
In the storm, his black coat would flutter in the wind. Like whip the sound seemed to hit the moaning, spirits mourn that filled the air. The black stone would move and roll and crush all in their path. The only thing that never changed was the old man.
His eyes were the deepest blacks. Prisons for all that dared to approach the bridge. Deeper than the Darkness, which his darkened hood threw upon his face. Like two portals to the darkest place in existence, with a bright shining point of light at the very end. His staff he held in one hand, never changing like a symbol of perseverance. A rusty blade crosses above his head like a dark red magical half-moon. A box was hanging on his belt, hitting the rusted keys next to it. None of it ever changed. The only thing that never changed was the old man.
One day a girl had walked up to him, to the horror of the parents, who screamed in pain. None dared to stop the girl, and a black rose wooden bow was already prepared. The girl walked up to the old man, with a rose in hand. The old man had slowly lifted his head. The girl did not scream or run, she smiled, and the wind of souls stopped. The old man reached out his hand and took the rose, it withered in his hands and fell to dust.
The only thing that never changed was the old man.
Since then every day the girl walked up to the bridge and gave the old man the rose and every time the rose withered and died. As the girl grew into a woman, she continued on and brought one rose after the next to the old man on the bridge. To the surprise of many, the land around had changed. Roses grew and covered the black stone, the screams of the dead were replaced with the singing of birds. The only thing that never changed was the old man on the bridge.
One day the woman died in her bed of age. Throughout her life she had visited the old man on the bridge and when she died the bridge was empty. The thing that never changed had changed. The old man had walked to her house. Knocked on the heavy wooden door and like a ghost seemed to hover to her bed. Once again she had smiled and reached out her hand. The old man took the hand and as before, like the roses, she withered away and became dust. A single tear, it was said, had dropped from the dark portals and the one thing that never changed, had changed:
The old man since then was never seen again.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s