As a child, the village elders would gather us around the rest days bonfire, all of us tired from running in the fields or helping the farms. Then they would take out long rolls of a substance and tell to us magnificent tales: valiant soldiers and damsels in distress, legendary monstrosities, and numerous others. I never understood what was on that roll, nor did I ever get to see those long rolls until the workings days came to a close. The tales, however, carved magnitudes of caves in my mind, all full with questions.

One day those papers completely disappeared, that was also the day the warriors came. They were unlike those of the stories - cruel, unforgiving, and demanding. The strongly built men came and they destroyed, no sign of the caring and chivalrous disposition of the tales. From that moment on my childhood fascinations we’re continuously shattered. We were forced to work long days. No tranquil stories by the warm firelight on the resting day.

Then more soldiers came and they pulled us out of our homes, dragging us to crowded places. The small houses fit barely fit two families of four and the streets were crowded with vermin and ragged, dirty people cupping their hands. Mother had always pulled me away from those strangers. For a time, I forgot about those wild tales on resting day nights. Then the large men came again and pulled us away in chains. They spoke oddly. To me it sounded like gibberish, but something one said made another man scrunch up his face. It confused me for a while before I realized we spoke differently. Suddenly, I could understand them again, and they were demanding where the monsters were, where those brave soldier disappeared, and where those long rolls of…whatever it was were.

It all came flooding back, the adventures of the metal clad men, the damsels in distress, and the terrors guarding the….hoards….of treasure…

Some of my playmates grandparents grabbed any linens they could find and began to scribble strange symbols onto them. At night, some of them would retell us those stories that we had heard so long ago by the fireside. Once I saw an old man take an ash stick and make the markings, but the soldiers came and dragged him away. I didn’t see him again after that, nor did anyone else. Years passed and the elders died. My people were still in chains, forced to plow and get barely anything in return. My playmates and I grew up. While searching for blankets one cold night, I found one of those linens with the lines on it. I didn’t dare ask around, everyone knew if you asked or got caught with those linens, you would be taken away. Quickly shoving the cloth away, I ignored the squiggles and finally located some horse blankets.

Now, I sit in my chair, my bones weak from cold and age. I talk and tell of those fabulous tales that were once told to me to the children at my feet. Children who are worn, like me, but still have hopeful sparks in their eye.

It has taken me this long to realize it was greed, that drove The Takers into our homes. Greed, for those fabled treasures. It has been long now since our enslavement- our children are speaking in that strange tongue of The Takers.

My memory is slowly failing me. There is none now left to remember the stories but the children, who soon may be swallowed by The Takers greed too. If only someone could make the words we speak immortal. Make the words we speak tangible, held in hand and tell the stories so they all wouldn’t have to be remembered.

It is too late, I think, for us to be saved, we will ever remain until nothing remains. Swallowed up by the abyss. But I think, yes, I believe I shall sleep now. Sleep and live those dreams among monsters, soldiers, and women in distress. Yes, I shall sleep now, eternally.