Fool’s Gambit
Keepsakes of heartbreak at days end
Prophecy The worm will deepen his burrow the desert sands melt into glass the first shall be as the last all earthly kingdoms shall perish thus the age of man shall pass from light unto eternal darkness sun and moon obscured by clouds the winds will cry havoc and bleak winter will rule for evermore… Down came the gate keeper’s arm and the charm was broken War Corrupt twisted live thing in it’s blood sodden sack slung across the crookback saddle of a lone messenger. Faint mewing cry, infant of tragedy, awakening to conflict lullaby of calamity and inevitability Age old traveling companions on the long cold road to death… opposing pawns on the checkerboard battlefield pennants unfurling, the doom of the drum and the skirling of pipes. Sickles and hoes, hacksawn breath, farmers and woebegone peasants. Fodder for more serious, more practical combatants, to practice their dark arts upon. Precious sacrifice to keep the gods amused and the wolves busy at night The Queen and her consort nobility pleading chivalry and courtly love all while burying their hoard look on from tombstone toothed battlements quietly removing spent pieces off the board. On the towering crest one sally port opens in the predawn light. Come shambling forth murderous crow~black priests sorcery of their death burdened god aiming their curses skywards words sired by hatred for the pagan and love of prig proper self righteousness. The true cross cruciform, cunning and cruel One god under our opposing thumb crush them back into the Stone Age Needling knights impaling butcher bird hedgerows lances relishing the sun fleckled razor edged morning Hunting a will o the wisp enemy in the mist wreathed valley of shadow. St Elmo’s fire~conch shell skulls~blown maggot flies~marsh gas and swamp meat in the blistering heat of battle. The belligerents’ cries scything the mendicant morning, silencing birdsong No Quarter given. Ravens pluck eyeball fresh skullduggery lips torn~shredded blood~ready bread shadowy shambling wraiths criss cross the hoof cut sward twinkle of a knife in the moonlight foreshortening life ring fingers, arm rings, gathering ghoulish mementos. Keepsakes of heartbreak at days end. Epilogue The finality of folded flags The folly of Everwar the cradle will rock empty of succour their names and deeds pass into oblivion their fields salted and barren their land and their people shall know them no more… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Top Photo by Alexander Mass on Unsplash
Photo by Jill Dimond on Unsplash
This description is intensely atmospheric and unwavering. The sensory imagery—such as 'tombstone-toothed battlements,' 'crookback saddle,' and 'St. Elmo’s fire~conch shell skulls'—creates a world that feels both medieval and apocalyptic. The depiction of War as a 'corrupt twisted living creature in its blood-soaked sack' is uniquely haunting and establishes a sinister tone that persists through to the chilling epilogue.
Was this war worth fighting for? Beautifully written S.x