The new moon hung in the cloudless sky, almost intangible against that grey canvas that stretched out beneath it. Soon the horsemen would charge upon the earth and salt the ground as they went, and with the stamp of those hooves, signal the final turning of the moon.

Mothers held their children’s heads to turn their eyes from the doom above, and soon averted their own gaze to spare themselves the sight. The elders gathered in their circles and wept as the last light swept across the moon, and they sung as the waxing began, they sung as if they were the earth itself, a lament for a loved one soon to be passed.

All the wars ceased and the soldiers halted in their frenzy, even death itself seemed to slow to be witness to the moon in its lustre. The full moon shone for them and in an instant all remembered their place in time. Crimson men were golden for a moment, they waxed like the moon.

The smallest creatures of the world turned to their many burrows and found what comfort they could. The waning had begun, and in the farthest places, the deepest woods and tallest mountains - a call could be heard. Family to family and friend to friend, each beckoning to the other, hoping for salvation in an embrace.

The last light was cleaved from the moon just as quickly as it had come, and the lands of all came to waste. For those left alive to see it, it was not as the books had foretold nor was it what the preachers had preached. There was no fire, no final battle, or crescendo of the celestial chorus - there was only the silent wave that washed gently over everything. It would have felt like the coldest silk, if you could have touched it.