The Fate of the River

He began life as a trickle of water running down a mountainside, seeping into the forest below. But as centuries passed, he began to cut a niche in the mountain, until soon, he had grown into a landscape altering power.

Joyfully, he flowed through the land, a giver of life to countless souls. Trees sprouted on his edges and frogs built homes near the lily pads resting at the end of his mouth, where he spilled into the ocean. All the forest animals would come to drink at his side, their tongues lapping up his pristine gift of water. It was the perfect existence, an existence of harmony.

And then, everything changed.

At first, they came in peace. Like all the animals of the forest, they drank from his waters and harvested his bounties. But something was different. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. 

These creatures were unlike the others. They harvested the forest and built nests of stone. Fields of carefully managed plants dominated their landscape, and animals were locked away in structures built from slain trees. But worse were their dens of stone, where hundreds of these creatures would meet. They drove metallic beasts on rivers of rock, and lit up the night with fire captured in crystalline orbs.

As the creatures grew in number, he began to grow sick. His waters no longer flowed as powerfully, nor did it still shimmer in the moonlight. Relics of the creatures’ greed swirled in his current, bunching together on his shores and leaving him scarred.
           Slowly, his thoughts grew dim as his waters grew murky with filth. He tried to remain awake, for the animals needed him, but his consciousness faded, until nothing remained.