The Blind Donkey

The room was thick with smoke, the air heavy with tobacco and burnt wood. At the head of the long, polished table sat Lord Nikolaus Waldemar, a bloated figure whose belly hung over his belt. His sweaty hands rested on the crucifix before him, the silver edges gleaming in the dim light. A hollow symbol he clung to, justifying the rivers of blood that flowed beneath the empire he ruled. The cross had become his excuse for the atrocities he committed.

Waldemar’s crooked jaw hung loosely, the result of years of indulgence. His eyes glazed over as his fingers lightly tapped the hilt of a sword, the rhythmic sound echoing through the room, a reminder of the violence that had followed his every decision.

Faceless men joined him at his war table, shadows in dark suits, discussing the bloodshed that consumed their land. They hadn’t cared if their people were dying in the trenches; they were just numbers. Soldiers, citizens, women, children; they were all collateral damage in the game of power. The men spoke in cold tones about how much profit could be made from the grieving families, how much more they could squeeze from the bones of the dead.

"Money, money, money," the words reverberated in Waldemar’s mind, drowning out the cries of the fallen. His heart beat for one thing alone: more wealth. The suffering of others was an opportunity, a means to fuel his empire, built on the backs of the poor, whose lives were worth no more than the straw they harvested.

A servant approached with a platter of bread, grapes, and wine. Waldemar tore into the bread, but the illusion of substance turned to dust in his mouth. The more he consumed, the emptier he felt. There was no peace, no satisfaction.

A faint bray interrupted his thoughts. He turned toward the window. A blindfolded donkey wandered aimlessly on the hill, dragging a cart of heavy stones and the skeletons of soldiers fallen. The poor creature stumbled, unable to see where he was going.

Waldemar’s lips curled into a bitter laugh. “How fitting,” he muttered. “We all end up as blind donkeys, don’t we? Stumbling toward our own destruction.”

His laughter boomed through the room, but no one joined him. His laugh rattled his loose jaw, as he watched the creature outside his protected home.

The skeletons being dragged by the blinded donkey filled his mind, the bones of his own people, picked clean by war and stacked to fuel the furnace of riches.

He could end the war. Peace could be negotiated. But there was no money in peace. The truth was cold and unforgiving: war was the engine of his wealth, and the fire that fueled his greed.

His mind raced, consumed by darkness, trying to turn the straw of his citizens' lives into gold. And just like the donkey, he was blind to the cliff ahead.

The war raged on. Waldemar sat at the head of the table, surrounded by men whose faces no longer mattered, as each death became another coin, each casualty another opportunity to fuel his hunger.

The eclipse of the sun had come. Not from the stars, but from the greed of men who sought to snuff out the light. The donkey stumbled, and just like his people remained blind, continued toward their own demise.

Even though the undeserving were paying the price for a war their leaders had brought to their doorstep, time wouldn’t stop the war from arriving at his own. When Waldemar’s greed bled his land dry, he would be long gone, forgotten. He would look back on his days hiding in his war room, watching the blind donkey, forever stumbling toward the cliff, and realize that was a glimpse of his own future.