1000 Words. A Picture's Worth.

Vivid greens. Each blade of grass visible as a darker strand in the sea, bending in the wind, amongst waves made of hills. A blue sky stretches up from the farthest reaches of that sea with no visible sun. Not unnatural in itself, for do the skies reflect the water or the water reflects the sky? Neither clouds nor birds make their mark, creating a sacrosanct illusion. Pale though, not a startling blue or a dark navy that would go so well with the myriad greens below, but a pastel sheet, the open roof. A black speck in the distance, and only the most fanciful stretch of the imagination would lead to the conclusion that it is an otherworldly body and not a hawk. A blemish that serves no greater purpose than to defeat the illusion for those that would search for such weaknesses. Dragging the eyes in, while the sun might remain hidden from view above, a golden sparkle lights the stream like the graveyard of so many fairies, shimmering across the surface to meld together the blue, white and yellow. Winding like a sea snake through the green mounds rising around it, the colours fading in and out with no hint of those as cast their shadow upon it. The flow direction is exquisite; coming in from the distant horizon, majestically clear of anything that might shatter its deceptively still surface. Only the depth variations break the illusion that it must indeed be surging from its source with a force greater than the casual glance might imply.
There’s something almost spectacularly simple about the arrangement. Perhaps that is the day with its uniqueness. And then again, perhaps it is how the land was shaped by a hand so skilled that painters of the renaissance would go weak at the knees for a chance to capture it on their canvas. The gentle slope of the land, as it rises and falls to hide the water coursing through it, with the sparse sprinklings of dandelions on that side where the hidden sun might fall. Though the tiny stalks merge into their background as they float away, the bends and shifts in the grass give evidence of a wind that must surely force them to fly and keep watch on their unspoilt lands.
But where such an image is slightly blurred, one object stands out in sharp detail and stark contrast to the surroundings. Closer to the edge where all in front is a foot of grass looking painfully ordinary, there is a boy, standing in that most traditional of poses. Thumbs tucked in his pockets, fingers outside curled into half-fists. One leg slightly bent with the other straight, leaning against an invisible support. A scene otherwise devoid of life, with nature ringing out in all her glory, one-man stands heroically stationed, the victor in an empty battlefield. No flowers to shatter the green, and just the clear blue providing its stark outline from his face to his shoulders, below which the land stakes its claim to the rest of him. The stream comes gushing out near the base of his back, a sparkling disembodied tail twirling its merry path away, singing a silent song so different from that of the invader, the owner. So stands the conqueror, frozen still, being not of evil but bringing it forth upon shoulders sagging under its burden.
Dark hair slightly ruffled, thin strands coming loose from the head where the rest remains fixed in a wave, shining golden-brown. Pale skin soaking in the rays of the sun, forming a face well proportioned. Lips set in the beginning of a smile, straight with just the edges turned up. Eyes the colour of his hair, visible amongst lids just beginning to close. Black plain t-shirt hanging loose, showing hard wear. Faded jeans, the belt shining to mark its own on the sides where the shirt is raised to make room for the hands ceremoniously placed within. Thick black walking boots end the body, lending substance to the thought there might be a pattern here.
That which might otherwise look like a simple stand, evolved over generations, reveals more only where the signs would be sought. Shoulders slack on a person built to hold them high. Eyes alight with the wonders that surround them, yet the pupils too dilated for a scene so well lit. The mouth that remains indecisive over whether it might split into an open expression of joy over the find, yet made humble by the weight of such a discovery. An aura that portrays victory and defeat, the conflict visible at anything past the casual glance, for here is one who knows the deathblow that so simple an action might become.
Only the closest examination would reveal a light held in those eyes. A sparkle held there from the moments before the final capture. And what such moment could ever be complete without the touch of him behind the shutter. Timing that is not required in such unmoving perfection, experience of what would build in the minds of men an image of heaven on earth. Men as are wont to begin with admiration and turn to destruction. Long do men such as are here roam this planets ancient lands looking for some sliver untouched by this corrosion. And more often than not are their efforts rewarded by the draw of others to these places, forever pushing their beauty into the history vaults of giant treasuries.
It is such knowledge that makes the task most rewarding and painful. Beauty untouched, experienced and then handed over to the masses for the ravaging. Such knowledge as sets fire to the image. And as the red flames twist their way upwards and turn everything before them into black tendrils of smoke and falling ashes, the image falls, floating slowly to the ground lost forever to men, and preserved for humanity in the souls of two brave conquerors, privileged to find the sweet taste of victory in defeat.