Ruevin was not a city of blood stained towers. It too had spires and pastel-colored houses and terracotta-tiled squares. Ruevin was not a city where the rivers ran gray. The tall bridges cast shadows on blue tinted waters and the canals stretched far into the fauborgs.
Men paint pictures of the fall of Ruevin but do not celebrate its life. They are obsessed with the city as it crumbled, how the tall bridge toppled into the river, and the spire broke in two, burning the merchants quarters and killing the governor asleep in his mansion. There are countless portraits of the main square flooded as they captured and broke the dam, and of the clouds of grayish red dust cast up from the coal stoves, burning the city elders who refused to surrender.
The fall of Ruevin was so much greater than its beginning that it has become a shorthand for our failures, our wantonness.
Some cities die and are recalled for the gifts they bestowed upon civilization, but Ruevin is a city whose death is remembered for the steep heights from which men may fall.