stone tower

The sun shone weakly. Aged by the ravages of time. The wind whistled a broken tune. The grass was greying, browning. The once mighty river was now a stream. Trickling slowly. Water gushing downwind. On the west of the stream, a gaggle of boys were kicking around a soccer ball. Their giggles, and shouting, and swearing, those sounds drifted like smoke into the air, and hung low and heavy. The undercurrent of joy ran thick. Smiles and sweat intermingling on their faces, and moppy hair.

The tower stood watch. It too had been broken down by the whiplashes of time. It was now but a mere stone rabble.

It had once stood guard against the mightiest of the human invaders. Mongols on horseback, hordes and hordes. Greeks in chariots, cavalcades. Mughals on elephants. Stampedes. The bird men of the clouds. Soaring on eagles with wingspans not seen since. The medievals on dragons. Flying formations. Heroes that were little known and would not be remembered in the annals of poetry. The ones that saw and daughter immortality not in ballads but in the power of the tower. The ones with vision. Leading those who did not see. And were not worthy. But the leaders did. And were. It had once stood guard against the mightiest of the human heroes. It had only three champions. Three that acted like one. That sacred number. Those sacred numbers. The magical ones that still few people saw. It had stood guard. And it had repelled the rest.

Hearing stories of the blood shed by the river, the clear water turning crimson every time someone tried to invade, settlers steered clear of it. But a few centuries had passed since the last of the invaders. A few centuries had passed since humanity had lost the spark of adventure. And the legends had become myths. And the myths had become old wives’ tales. People had begun to believe less and less. In time, the three had faded. Now there was only cloth on the embankments of the tower, fluttering slowly, yet still with enough power that it was pinned to the tower. It would not leave. The three pieces of cloth would not leave. Not yet. The three had faded. The myth had turned into tales. With time people had begun building houses closer to the radius. The circle kept shrinking as nothing happened and the mouths of humanity kept growing in number. Now they were a stone's throw away from the river. The tower was in shambles. Broken, crumbling stone.

The sun shone weakly, it’s power aged by the centuries. The wind whistled a broken tune. The soccer ball bounced from one boy to another as they maneuvered it around one another expertly. Somewhere in the nearby village, a dog barked. Then another. A third. A visitor had come. None but the dogs saw him. The river peeled up, the stream becoming an anticipatory gushing. Maybe it would stink crimson today. It could smell the scent of intention in the air. The intentions of old.