This morning, a child ran towards me and asked if he could hold my dagger. I hope he's alright.
The walls of our city fell after sunset. Magnificent walls built of stone and sweat- They were sturdy, protected a city of good people and better food. Our guard was fully dressed when they came, preparing for a festival with another nation. "To add some joy," our king said, "To these dreadfully empty times."
Now, everything is dark. We're sheltered in the throne room, there is no light, save the kiln, and no hope, save the Father. I hope he gets here soon. Rocks, spears, and arrows are being vaulted through the windows, cracking against the floor and piercing the ground. One smashed right through the throne's armrest. There are five of us in total, against an abyss. A maelstrom. Against death.
And we wait.
We look to the king. He is sitting, watching the flames dance. He seems at peace, calm. He is approaching the next world, even before he is wounded. The King is wise. He stands- slowly, deliberately. We see the fire in his eyes, brighter even than the burning wood. He takes a breath. His face is dark.
And we wait.
"Scribe. Take the tablet." Everyone snaps their heads to the corner he has pointed in. The wiry man picks up the rock, hastily. Quietly. The noise outside has ceased, the outsiders must be listening. The king turns to face the scribe. "Write." The scribe takes his wedge to the tablet. The king's words echo, I know that the enemy hears it. We all do.
And we wait.
"Father. I do not come in anger, my soul is at peace. Our enemy has arrived. Great, terrible, infinite. My cities are ash, my country in ruin. You knew my men were in Hatti, my navy in Lukka- too far for aid. Where were you? They gave no mercy, no quarter or warning. Our children lay dead, the streets flowing with the blood of the future.
But that does not matter now. I have failed, and you with me.
My world has been abandoned. I join the dead."
His lip quivered. He reached to his hip, drawing an elegant curved sword as the rasp echoes through the small chamber. Orders us to line up as the outsiders remain quiet. We are side to side now, shaking. Sweating. We are seeing death for the first time, now. It is ugly. It is terrible. It is everywhere. Hanging over the room as a thick black smoke over a fire.
And we wait.
He strikes the ground at our feet, twice in front of each man. The sparks fly upwards as he examines the sword, still flawless. The bronze shines in the light of the kiln. "Scribe. Make it stone." The man gently pushes the tablet into the flames, and stokes them one last time. Closing the door, I can feel it shake the room. The men too, all of us. Our last letter to the world. Made as eternal as the Earth itself. The king hands us our blades, a scroll for luck and a firm grasp for comfort.
And we wait.
Defiant, we chant into the wind. Our words lost forever into the winds of history. The outsiders respond, louder and more numerous. An army against five men. "Cowards!" The king shouts, his breastplate rising as he yells.
"Face us! Face us as you did our children, as our wives! Slaughter us, as you did our cattle and land!" He's roaring now, his face blackened by soot. I see his hair behind him like a mane. "Smite us!"
And we wait.
The challenge was heard- the door bursts open, axes and spears pouring inside. They are a mountain, falling onto a tree. The very air itself changes into a mist, dark and tainted with the blood of those before us. I can feel it, it's surrounding me. There is no pain, there is no fear. Just the mist. I meet them in combat, drive my dagger into an invading throat. The man falls and my sword smashes into metal. Death is here. I feel it being stabbed into my heart. But I keep striking.
And I wait.
