On the Eve of the End
In the way it always does.
We descend into nothing.
Chain to chain, shoulder to shoulder, four-by-four, we're corralled down limestone steps at the palace courtyard's southern end towards its center. A bard hums. A babe cries out, mine throat tightens. Here, I’ve lived through many births–
Whiff.
Schlink.
And fewer executions.
A skull tumbles onto marbled stone and ends between mine feet. Our sentry. Brown eyes, teary. Accusatory. Though that can’t be right, since our last ale was to erase all facial personhood. Yet, there’s no mistaking the pained cast of Thomas, brother of mine,
only nine Summers.
About the Creator
beluliel
Lost to some.
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By S. A. Crawforda day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
That was awesome!!! 💖