The Puppet Master grimaced as he walked down the stairs towards the basement below his house. His fingers felt every crack and crevice as they ran across the ancient wood of the railings. He remembered. He knew. A time when there were those who would descend unto his lair to see, to understand and to marvel at his Puppets. At the world he created for them. Nay silver not gold, nor bright nor dark could hinder him now. For so many years, he had left them. His puppets. To live on naught but their selves. He reminisced of time gone by and of ages past. He knew his death approached. He knew what would become of him soon. But even before his nearing death, he wished, nay, he needed to glance once more upon those creatures of wood and stone that he had molded with the fingers of his hand and the sweat of his brow. So many years had passed. Millennia perhaps, since that fateful day. The one day that had ruined his life more so than any other. The day they all left. Every last human, every creature that once roamed the Earth except for him. He stayed back with the wood and the trees, knowing full well that soon, all would end. He feared not the end, for the End would meet him. Always it followed waiting for him to do the one last thing he wished to do, glance once more upon those faces and bones chiseled into the wood of the pines, oaks and trees that once spoke to him in whispers, in wind and storm. Children once ran to him to see his puppets, to speak to him and see the worlds he had created around him for those Puppets, those unmoving objects which were his only comfort, his only love in life. But since the End came upon all, everyone had gone, fled the world in contraptions that took them beyond the stars, fled in fear of the nearing fate that all had to face. The End of All Things.
He drudged on, with tired feet and dreary eyes. He had had enough. Now was the End. But before that, just once more, he wished to lay his eyes upon those marvels, those memoirs of bygone era. His feet took him to the end of the wooden stairs and into the hall of his creations, the very scent of the air was of wood, of new life, of forgotten dreams. He looked around the hall as he thought of the home that he had built for those silent ones, and of how it looked the same, unchanging, though the years had changed all else. The light through the ebony-rimmed window up high pierced through and illuminated the room. The walls were covered with canvas depicting entire worlds, some of faerie folk and of their frolics, some of Creatures of the Wood, others of living monuments of Stone, worlds of Men, and uncountable more, each entirely different from the next, each forged from the heart of the Puppet Master. Not a speck of dust had smeared neither the walls and the Worlds, nor the carpets of crimson red upon the floor. Here, there was life, there was love and hope.
His feet took him to the dwelling place of his creations. Picking one up, his fingers ran across the face, unchanged by all else. The walls and the creatures, the puppets and the worlds, all spoke to him, telling him of their stories, their tales, their advents and lives. The puppets seemed to live, laugh and leap at the Puppet Master’s return when, in deep serenity, the Puppet Master’s eye welled with tears. Before his eyes, he beheld a love and laughter unlike any other, a hopeful spark that burst into flame. And now, all was done. Closing his eyes, he embraced the End. The Ancient One had passed on, yet there lay no remnants of him. His mind, his love, his laughter, his hopes, dreams and life had traversed the boundary of all else and had breathed new life into his creations.
All had come once more to life, to live for eras hence as those who were once the creations of Him they called the Puppet Master. Once more, the faerie danced, the monuments arose, the puppets frolicked and the Forgotten was Remembered.
By: Adithya Christopher
