Story and legend tell of a story. A story of our ancestors. Like many of its kind, this one begins long ago, in a time different from this.
The Fire of White
A long time ago, there were two kings. Their kingdoms lay side by side. For a long there time, there had been peace and trade between the two kingdoms. Then, the two kingdoms found themselves at the brink of war. Some say it was greed that sparked the animosity: one of the kings wanted the other’s kingdom. Others say it was anger: one of the kings had ordered the other’s traders be cheated, not given their due payment. Others hold a dispute of passion and love to be the cause. Its spark was created, and the fire of war ignited. A long war was fought, with both kingdoms sending their men to fight, and die in the heat of battle. Eventually, the war ended, with neither side claiming victory. The two armies were of near identical ability and strength. The blood of the dead, it is said, crept out of the lifeless bodies, seeped into the land and soil of the battlefield. The families of the deceased mourned, with both of the kings’ subjects killing them for having lost them their family members, waged war. The war was ended.
Those of the soldiers who fled, managed to leave the battlefield with their souls in toe, were chased out by a fire. One larger than any of them had ever seen, the flames of which were hotter than any that had ever burned. The fire burned white. White flawless and pure as the clouds. Its large beams snaked up toward the heavens. So tall, they were seen from within the gates of the two kingdoms. It burned throughout the battlefield, leaving no part of it unaffected. The fire burned for many days. The night sky was set alight by the wildfire.Amazed, the elderly and children alike watched the blaze that ate away at the land. They sang.
The fire of white
Burning in the night.
Fueled by burning souls
Of those sent to fight
Those hearts strong and fierce,
Those smiles bright.
The fire of white
Burning in the night
Where the dark once was
Great phantoms of might.
Oh how beautiful is the sight
Of the fire of white.
One day, a bright spring morning, a call was heard from outside both kingdoms. The call was so inviting that everyone who could followed its sweet pull. The call was emanating from what was the battlefield where the war was fought. They followed the call to its source. What they found was not the barren battlefield of the great war they knew to be there, but a bed of flowers.
The Song of the Flowers
They found an expanse of white roses, each round and the size of a clenched fist. They looked for who was calling for them, and found no one. The call came from the roses. They approached the flowers, finding that each of them was called to different flower. Just as they neared the rose that pulled them, the flowers started to sing. The song they sang brought them to them to their knees. The flowers sang of the dead. The flowers sang, each lamenting the death of a husband, a father, a brother, a son. They sang their names, moments they were happy and sad and heartbroken, memories they had held, dreams they had had. The flowers only sang to the ears of those who had known the man of whom the flower sings. No one else could hear the words of the roses. When they had finished singing, the flower slowly turned a bright red, gradually, drop by drop of luminous colour, as if being stained by blood. Once red, they say, the people could hear the flowers weep. The cries of the flowers shook their souls. That is the story of field of weeping flowers.
The flowers still cry now. No one hears their song.