[ IP ] It 's Who We Were

The man always took this path. Just a mere 100 miles, it was the fastest way from his town to the next. With his horse he could make it in 3 days. 
 
 
 He shrugged the bag back over his shoulder, the cold wind blowing sand in his eyes. 
 He hated this, every second spent on the road was one second where his family, his friends, everyone that he knew, spent dying of hunger. The village head gave him the last of the town's food and told him to get to the next town, to get food for the rest of them, to save them. 
 
 
 His stomach growled, the pain of hunger was taking him too, albeit slowly. His mind shifted to the 2 loaves of bread in his bag. The man was tempted, but he could n't eat them. 
 
 
 He had 2 more days to go. 
 
 
 As he rode his horse the desert wind whipped up the sand all along his path. He could have sworn that he could make out the silhouette of animals all around him, but he knew that was impossible. 
 
 
 Nothing had been able to live out here for centuries. The last animals had died over hundreds of years ago, right after the world had gone to hell. He shuddered. 
 
 
 If he was n't fast enough his town would soon join them. 
 
 
 ***** 
 
 
 The wind grew harsher and harsher as time ticked on. A storm was coming, it seemed as if they always were. They ripped up the meager crops that the village could produce. They tore down the houses that the men in the village worked months on like paper. 
 
 
 The man paused. His horse was exhausted. He was, too. But he could n't stop yet, if the storm hit him he would be lost in it, costing his village precious time. He had to find cover. 
 
 
 He knew exactly where to go. 
 
 
 ***** 
 
 
 The giant monument was pointed to the sky. It was a reminder of times long past, times lost to the beating passage of time. The man wondered if the people of that time had problems too, if the monument was pointed to the sky to distract them of the problems down below. 
 
 
 But he would never know. The monument which must have once gleamed in the sun was eroded by the wind, just a mountain of dirt now. Whoever had made this had died centuries ago. The village head claimed that they were made by Gods who had escaped to the stars years ago. 
 
 
 The man thought different. These monuments were here at the time the world went to hell. It was made by his ancestors. *That* was who they were. 
 
 
 Startled out of his thoughts by a clap of thunder in the distance, the man rode in the direction of the monument. These days it had little purpose but for shelter from the elements. The man shuddered, it mattered not who made the monument. All that was left behind from them now were broken pieces of their culture and a world in ruin. 
 
 
 The man rode on, the storm was getting stronger. He was the last hope of his people.
