"The Cloud Garden has not changed. But our numbers have."
The somber, aged voice seemed to echo. Out of thirty-seven chairs, only twenty were filled. The luxurious room was silent. Each individual sat in posh white chairs. Surrounded by pristine white floors and a ceiling that gave view to the clear Spring sky.
The weather was lovely, clear. But if one had eyesight that could make a bird seem blind. They would…
"I can see the battlefield from here." Harsh cynical laughter broke out from the one who spoke. "I can see those who believe in us dying from here."
"It seems we have truly been pushed into a corner. Once we could travel the world as we pleased. Now…"
"Our land extends to as far as our eye can see. Isn't there some ancient story about something like that?"
"A tale from the Midlands?"
"Indeed."
The low ring of a hammer rung out. And a dry chuckle followed it. An old man with a metal hammer jammed into his amputated right arm left his chair. Moving to the window he stared out his eyes on the battlefield.
Some of those seated watched him and some ignored him. But all could tell he was watching every aspect of the battle. Every individual blow given, every individual blow taken.
"I'm feeling a little claustrophobic."
With a calm face, the old blacksmith tapped the window shattering it and took to the air. As if the wind was carrying him he drifted to the battlefield. And his form erupted. Transforming into a mountain of weapons.
He raged and fought with every weapon he crafted. The memories of the myriad of weapons that inherited his hope, sweat, and effort. Did what they could and for seconds, minutes, hours he fought.
But soon the mountain wore down and a tired old man fell to the grown. His body to be desecrated like those he tried to protect.
And in the Cloud Garden a gentle "Fool," rang out.