It is a hot, wet summer in Din Talin. The air hangs heavy with moisture that dews on the beds of moss lining the crags of the clearing. They have been eroded by time, but a traveller may make out the echoes of steel beams, corrugated sheets and rotted wooden poles. Years of rain and sun and lack of humans has led to the plant life reclaiming the clearing upon which the Bastion once stood. What is not covered by moss, grass and shrubbery is brown and rusted, even falling apart in some places. Many bled here and died here, but those memories have faded long ago. All that remains are rotting walls, holes that have become mere divots from years of erosion, and the echoes of a people trying desperately to survive.
In the centre of this clearing lies the infirmary… or what little remains. Gone is the metal box full of beds, beakers and bandages. Of all the places in the Bastion that nature has reclaimed, it has done so particularly efficaciously here: every surface is caked in a layer of fluffy moss, with flowers sprouting from the cracks and an adolescent redwood growing out of the centre. Signs of the few travellers that have come and gone litter the area: patches of moss that have been slightly compressed, small paths worn beneath the steps taken around the area, and small letters carved into the bark of the tree. One can hardly tell that such trauma and betrayal took place here many years ago. All that remains as a reminder of that time, to the naked eye, is a skeleton beneath the redwood, hidden by roots and moss. It lies blackened, from time or perhaps something else. But nobody remembers who they were, once, and in the grand scheme of things, it is simply one skeleton among many.
Somewhere west of the former infirmary lies a pit… or more accurately, a divot in the ground. A sign used to stand proudly beside it; a sign that has now rotted away like everything else that could in this place. Like the beams that held up the small yet ever-growing pit that was the excavation site. If one were to dig here, for whatever inane reason, they would, not too far down, find a container filled with bits and bobs: a shawl, a spacesuit, and a book… among other things. A story, that of the people who once called this place home. Dig further… the same. Again, and again, and again, tracing a line back through time to tell the stories of societies that grew, thrived and waned here. Perhaps one day, the cycle will repeat once more.
The Bastion loved its walls. Many lived and many died keeping them up, to protect what was inside… or contain it. There was once a time where a mere hole in the perimeter was the source of outrage and panic. That time has long passed. The fence has long since disappeared: what parts were functional were scrapped and carried away, and the bits that remained were eroded by the rain and humid summer heat into brown flecks of rust. The corpse that bridged one of the gaps, created some time ago from some incident now forgotten, has been laid to rest. All that remains are the logs that patrol soldiers once sat on, now the home of new life, and sheets of corrugated steel too heavy to carry, left there sticking out of the ground like monoliths to a bygone age.
Beyond this clearing, tall evergreen redwoods stand sentinel, as they have done and will continue to do for centuries. Life continues on here: foxes dart through the shrubbery, chasing rabbits that remain ever-elusive, although the vultures have since moved on to more plentiful pastures. The odd zombie too still wanders between the wooden spires, as does the occasional human. All are uncaring of the events that took place so close by; none care, and those that did have long forgotten. Somewhere in these woods lies a mound worn by time, with naught but a small metal chain hooked onto a discarded rifle barrel to mark it. Somewhere else, the body of a maiden long lost, and maddeningly close, a skeleton caught in a snare, still reaching out.
Further still, the mountains remain, same as they have since the first redwoods sprouted. A river flows down, clear and crisp, carrying snowmelt down into the verdant forest while old power lines snake up between the peaks and over the valleys. Many have snapped. The power plant from which they originate lies even less recognisable than before: rain and hail have beaten yet more material from the long-suffering building, and what remains has been further colonised by the innocent-looking mushrooms that litter the area surrounding it. The mycelial cluster has waned, ever so slightly, as the radioactive fallout peters out atom by atom. Perhaps the mushroom from which that fateful first spore flew remains. Perhaps it has died. It doesn't really matter.
It is a hot, wet summer in Din Talin. There will be many more hot, wet summers to come. The trees will still grow, the animals will still run, and the Bastion will remain naught but a memory.
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