The shrine is eerily still.

The shrine is eerily still.

Study the idol.

While it has been cleared of its vegetal conqueror, it is not without damage. Acid rain and thrown rocks have left pockmarks in the granite.

Time and neglect have taken a toll, but it's only stood here for about a half-century.

I see the vegetables have taken their war to the stones, too.

This has always been the case. But it could hardly be called a war -- stone doesn't fight back like the animals do.

The opposing kingdoms of animal, mineral, and vegetable will always contest each other. Their clashing provides the fertile bed from which life springs.

Place needs a new groundskeeper.

The job listing goes forever un-circled in the back pages of Portofiro's weekly rag.

THE PROLETARIAT HOLDS THE LINE AGAINST FASCISTIC INCURSION.

Take a step back from the statue.

Already it seems the overgrowth is plotting its next invasion as you retreat.

It seems to sink back into the overgrowth as you retreat.

How'd this shrine get into such a state?

From what you can see, the rest on this hill have been maintained, albeit to different degrees. This one seems to have been intentionally overlooked.

A man, white-knuckled, spits on the stone yet to be engulfed by the plants. 'Traitor', he says afterwards, curling his lip in contempt.

Lichen grows where the sun hits and moss in the shadows. Acid rain and thrown rocks have left pockmarks in the granite.

So which 'deathless hero' is commemorated here?

The name embossed in the stone has been overgrown by weeds, making it impossible to read.

SOME DEAD REACTIONARY, WHO CARES.

The intelligence has self-redacted.

Admiral Rigau, I presume.

The decaying stone monument neither confirms nor denies.

Pulse within the rock. Old power.

Clean up the shrine.

What to tackle first?

Pull up the weeds.

You grip the plants where they meet the ground and tug them from the earth. Soon, there's a small pile of uprooted stems and leaves lying next to the shrine.

Dirt under your fingernails.

His nails are white with the force he uses to grip the rifle. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of grit beneath them. Brown or red? Dirt or blood?

The name on the plinth revealed: ADRIA HECTOR RIGAU, ADMIRAL.

Scrape off the moss.

You curl your fingernails underneath the green vegetal softness, separating rhizoids from stone.

You manage to clear the very front of the idol's head before your nailbeds begin to sting, plant matter catching against the delicate skin.

His fellow patriots were killed in the street, or by sniper's bullets. A few of their bodies are still in the compound behind him.

Polish the stone with your sleeve.

Your rubbing doesn't do much for the idol's already-worn face, only stirring up motes of dust in the afternoon sun.

The rebel hero lies on the ground, haloed in red, a smile on his face. He knows his sacrifice will not be in vain -- he was able to inspire people to follow him in life, and so too in death, his voice will carry.

Gotta admit: cool way to go.

Death in the pursuit of revolution always carries a certain nobility.

NOT IF THE REVOLUTION WAS RETROGRADE! FORMAL DISQUALIFICATION ON GROUNDS OF IDEOLOGICAL INCOMPATABILITY!

I just respect a badass exit.

THERE'S NO GLORY IN DYING FOR A STUPID CAUSE.

I'm in a 'blaze-of-glory' state of mind right now.

There are no two identical deaths in the entire history of humans and animals.

Is that how it really happened?

It is the truth as told by the monument before you.

You know, I'm not that sad about it.

Few of the people that he knew in real life ever mourned his passing.

But across an ocean, the moment contorted into legend.

That's looking tidier. (Conclude.)

You stand back and admire your handiwork.

A voice from the dirt. Bullets in stucco behind him. Ears ringing, throat tight with panic. He shifts in the muck, clutching his gun, and whispers a prayer to an unnamed star: Not here. Not like this.

Turn away from the shrine. [Leave.]

Wilderness has gradually crept over the shrine, like the hill itself is trying to pull it out of sight.

The facade bears many wounds: chipped stone, deep gouges, a mask of red spray-paint: 'DEATH TO STRANGE COUSINS.'

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.