A fantasy of a world in its last bit of warmth.
I hear the whisper of icy waters as my last breath freezes before me.
I shall die in a few moments, the last of a breed, the last of a line, the last of a time that shall be no more.
I am Shaolin, a shadow that now fades into the Frozen Forever. To be gone forever, it seems far too long a time.
One more breath. Possibly another but few more than that.
Once this world was warm, drenched in the light that rained down from the Sister Suns. Waters flowed back then, down the mountains through the trickling streams, by the vine-covered cottages with their thick thatched roofs and their well-kept gardens, and then eventually, always eventually, into the Great Sapphire Sea.
In those years, the fields were filled with barley, like swaying seas of melted gold. In the fabric of their harvest, you could see the winds. These were not the winds of storms and frightful nights. No, these winds were but polite and playful breezes that brought the fragrance of the white Angel Flowers that dressed ever so delicately the green of the distant mossy hills. And when the wind turned, sometimes they brought the scent of the salty brine tossed into the air by the breakers that hit upon the rocky shore.
You always could hear laughter in those days, peaceful laughter that poured gently out of the old souls, joyful laughter that came with the sound of the children playing the sunshine fields. I will miss the laughter. Yes, I will miss it so. In particular, I will miss the warmth of the laughter and how it used to cozy my soul, like a fireplace cozies a winter's night.
But then again, the fireplaces have all grown stone cold and the campfires have gone out, one by one.
I am Shaolin, the last to remember the world the way it was before the coming of the Weather Wars.
Ah, yes, the world was, at one time, so warm and so wonderful. But no more.