Another day ended. Sol, once again, retired its eternal radiance from man, as it has in its never-ending cycles of dawns and dusks, witnessed by all the generations. In its greatness, it survived all of Terra's hardships and afflictions and it was a living monument to forever.
No one seemed to look to it for comfort any more. The faces of women and children didn't reflect its brilliance, since no one had reverence for its good any more. It was a mindless disregard that was sustained and nurtured by the generations of man that survived. For almost a millennia they forced themselves into ignorance and then blamed it on the chaotic destructions that scorched the earth and that burned the human spirit. Nowhere, it seemed, was there anyone of power willing to point-out a way to betterment.
Trust knew not any man who was strong enough to deny the utter discontent that trembled in the hearts of men without freedom. To almost every man, innately loomed a feeling of utter hopelessness.
In a dark room of the Blue Mountain, atop Bimini Hill, sat a middle-aged man of high station. He was a man richly endowed with great wealth, majesty and power, and he held the people's respect. This man had taken pride in his accomplishments but he had become saddened by his inability to present himself to the citizens in the way that they revered him; as living strength.
Brook had long since known the problems of the noble land in which he lived and reigned. He pondered its past and its future while he aimlessly stared out of the window at the warming sunset. In his mind flashed a memory of an old writing that expressed in an awesome detail the fear and the agony of oppression that the whole world must have felt in the final days, when the prophesied great abolition had come to pass.
Entranced, his thoughts were prolonged as he sat and watched the sun disappear into the earth; its light casting a reddish hue over his light beard and reflected cooly from his vacant blue eyes.
His mind embraced time. It drifted along its tenses, all at once, as if they were all merged into one music; a music that played continually, along with the troubled voices that cried, only to him, for help.
Caught up within his own thoughts, he payed little attention to the servant boy that set a drink on the table by his chair.
Without a word the boy flamed the gas torches and the room no longer remained dark. Quickly, he left the room.
"The sun was resting," thought Brook, as he reached for the chalice of ale beside him.