This land is old. Older than his descendants. Older than his blood. Older than his clan. Older than any war.

But it is not older than he.

He remembers finding this place: a desolate, dusty ravine hidden in the desert mountains. Desperate to escape the world, he had settled there, in a small cave.

The more time he spent there, the faster he realized that the journeys for food were becoming hazardous. So he began to work.

Every trip for food became a search for seeds. His wings grew strong from hauling water to and fro. He grew to be a powerful digger. The land thrived for many, many years.

Once, he had stopped to think about what he had accomplished. The children loved to hide in the flowers, the buzz of bees disguising their laughs. More often than not they came back with the sugar of fruit sticky on their fur. The adults chuckled when the kids attempted to raid the vegetables and did nothing but recoil in disgust.

They had a community, and it was thriving.

However, all good things must come to an end.

The land he had created died. Not to war, not to famine, not even to sickness.

Instead, winter arrived, the first in centuries.

Only the desert grass survived, sturdy and resilient in any weather. His clan lived on, in other places. They had begged him to go, but he had a responsibility. This was his creation, and he would fix it.

He was old now. His mind remained sharp but his body was worn. His wings did little more than trail along the ground. His eyes had not been open for many years. Even his legs were beginning to weaken.

But he would remain here, until the land was alive.

He settled down to rest forever, and watch over the ravine for the rest of time.

A white flower greeted his spirit, soaked in rain rather than burdened with sand.

He still has hope, no matter what. This place will never die.

This land is old.