Cry Havoc, the Forgotten World

Iron Age Media, July 26th Prompt

 Come the end of days, the seas will churn and the land will quake. The heavens will drown the world in unceasing rain as lightning streaks from horizon to horizon endlessly. Sing apocalypse, cry calamity. Let the lands be overrun by the sea, let the Earth be rent asunder and let ruin befall the Edifice of Man.

"But where," ask the sleeping gods, "has Man gone? Where now do the mortals walk?"

The stone and metal and timber dwellings are quiet, bereft of the voice of Man. The wayward children of creation no longer ply their hands at turning the Earth for seed and iron. They do not sing to the ether with magic beyond that of the gods. They do not bleed themselves for soil or salt beneath their colored banners. What remains but the echoes of Man's works, the bones of his great civilization?

Wind and rain and hail bring havoc to the shores. The sand reclaims itself, fracturing numberless stolen grains, scorched by fire into glass. Myriad things, incomprehensible to nature, are overrun by the roaring tides. These small articles are easy to defeat, but the steel and unnatural stone prove far more resilient. No matter the churn and whirl of the tide, the bathing of the land by fathom upon fathom of sea, cannot wipe away the strongest of Man's creations. The land itself must break apart and swallow away the heavensward pillars.

With furor not seen the since the birth of the world, the Earth rends itself apart, crumbling away the stone and soil that lies beneath the Edifice of Man. The Earth seeks what has been taken from it. Iron and stone fall deep into the breast of the world. With the passage of eons, this abominable perversion of nature shall be remade into what it should be.

"Where are you, mortal men? Where have you run? The Earth seeks and it shall find!"

But no matter the cries of vengeance that come from the furor of the world, Man does not reply. The waves surge further inland, through the valleys and the mountain passes, past trees and thickets and over top well turned acreage. Man has retreated as far as he may, to the center of the land even the roof of the world if he so can. But the rising tide has no mercy, no will to relent. The Earth's yellow and green hues turn blue swiftly and great scars appear upon the land where the tumultuous currents have no yet flooded.

One by one, the great cities fall to catastrophe, the wrath of the Earth made clear and loud. Still, there come no boasts or pleas from Man. The tempestuous skies scream hallowed wrath, shattering the horizons with terrible bolts of lighting between an all engulfing shroud of thunderheads. No creature upon the Earth can tolerate the cacophony, the terror of the skies. And yet, the cry goes unanswered.
"Come forward, stone hewer, iron shaper, earth carver! Meet your judgment against the rage of the world!"

Never once Man does speak. He no longer dwells upon the earth that gave him life. As the fury of the world is unleashed in brutality and tumult, Man is elsewhere. Whether he is between or beyond the stars, none but Man can know. The elements unleash their rage upon a world long forgotten and never shall they know that their vengeance is beyond futile.

Take the bones, o furious ones. Take the rust and the rot and the refuse that your favored child has left behind. He needs it not, for your are old and forgotten. And when your fury is sated and your shores are settled once more, be content with your quiet and your solitude for your silence as that of one singular place.

A grave.