“I am God. Those in my regime cannot deny this. I decree an action and it is done.” The old man said, running his right hand against the wood-grain patterns of the table. He sat in silence, his head turned downwards, as if to stare at his right hand. The room was dark. There was a glow of light in the corner where a stenographer sat, scratching down notes on a piece of paper.
The stenographer placed the pencil down. The light caught it and it shined—a mechanical pencil made of silver. It was plain, with a millimeter thick lead and a knob to loosen an inner sheath—allowing the lead to move in and out.
The stenographer’s hair was mussed and dusty. Mortar powdered his suit and hair. His left hand and face had small scratches that had long since bled—telling that his journey around the city was interrupted by explosions. Every now and then a dulled boom sounded. Shouts rang before and after. Outside the building, a motorcycle stalled, a man spoke, and the sound of the vehicle’s engine faded.
Looking up, the stenographer asked, “How do you mean, Sir?”
The man at the table grimaced.
“You have heard the shouts? The soldiers marching, the resounding shakes of bombs? You’ve heard rumors of another man, woman, child disappearing from their home? Their house empty and their possessions looted and door crashed in. Sometimes a family is gone, and no traces left whatsoever.
“People have left this country—hoping for a better world, only to be bombarded by our metal hawks and explosives. They thought they’ve left this war, only to find that they can never leave it. Planes drop bombs in every city.
“I have ordered many people to do many things. I was a god, then. My word was law; I stated what I wanted and I got it. No one dared to oppose.
“Well, maybe that is a lie. There were several attempted assassinations. There always were. They all failed, as you can see. I never died.
“My country was grand—clean and strong. But now you pass the Forum, and they talk of ripping it down. Talk of tearing it all down—all the grand estates and buildings, all my monuments and parks—reducing it to rubble. The common man is disgusted. No one wants to live upon the lands I have strengthened.
“But no one denies they have done wrong in letting me live, and they cannot face with what they have let me do. I ensnared them; every last one of them, with my words, and now the magic is gone. They realized I kept them in the dark. And now they are free to see what has occurred at will, and they are disgusted. They despise me.
“But they do not know that I cannot find peace in life. I have ordered the worst atrocities and I will have to face them. In due time, I will have to ask forgiveness to all those I have wronged. I will not be forgiven.”
The man’s face still tilted downward. His right hand had been moving as he talked, feeling the interlacing wood-grains. Touch, sound, and smell had weeks since replaced sight. A blackened, scarred strip—deep sockets in replace of eyes.
As the blind man sat in silence, his right hand stopped moving. The world dissolved, lost to darkness as silence prevailed and touch was lost.
The stenographer was staring at him. At length, he raised a hand to the typewriter and clacking resumed as he recorded the last paragraph.

…

The blind man ran his hand in circles over the wooden desk. He knew it used to be polished dark wood, but that would remain a memory, not a fact. He moved his hand across the smoothed edge where arms would rest while doing the daily business of writing letters or reading them. He moved his hand further to the right and found a patch of roughness. There he knew would be dried Bharatan ink. Every so often he would run along a score line—a scar from a letter opener or pen.
Nothing was left on the desk. The room was bare. It had been a while since he had been here. I return full circle—my beginning and end is in this building, he thought. During his life he never returned to this house, but kept it out of a deep childish need. He knew he could never return to his true birthplace—Sylt, an island off the coast of Inam. Striking white cliffs, clean, clear lengths of sand, and soft, calm rose patches no longer occupy Sylt.
Two years past, the island gave host to Aissurian soldiers. Blockades replaced the cliffs and bloodied barbed wire traced the border. Great watch towers now stand on those beaches where once the blind man played as a young, bright Inam child. A small plot of land, but one crucial in the hindrance of the blind man’s Ezan navy—Reichsflotte.

I posted this a couple days ago, but then it was one page and I didn't like how the section ended (the ellipses is the break between the two), so I changed it. This isn't done, obviously. Just really for Misha's sake. So he knows how it's going. I hope this all makes sense love! I had my dad look over it, and he said the stuff about Sylt makes sense and you helped with the mechanical pencil part.