I stare at
the dagger, the sun's cold light creeping up on me in the fearful cracks of the
stone walls, my silver breath frosting the blade, like the silver spirits
trapped inside the women and children, men and mages of this forsaken dungeon.
At least there is a window, even if it remained pathetically small. The
enticement and hope on the children's faces are like knives to my heart.
The ghosts just grumble, but even they know, as well as the dagger, that there
was Something about this year, and it wasn't good.
Something.
It echoed in my heart, the glimmering, glistening word that whispered of
change, which perhaps was the prison of my own self. Since the defeat of the
king, of my country, the people, since the survivors had been dumped in the
castle dungeon to die, Something slept. The humans aged and went old,
leaving behind naught but young men and children, young ones who did not
understand what was happening to their tender lives. And then they too grew
old, and their children now stared at me, the one they considered immortal, the
one with the dagger. They hoped for Something. Hope.
Hope sapped their souls like death. Something.
"If
the Dagger does not answer, trouble not you," the old man whispered. The
oldest man, who had survived for more than two centuries. Old when it
started and old when it shall end. No one knew how he did it, not even me, and
no one remembered a time he was young. He rested his frail hand on my shoulder
now, and I felt the toils it had been through. "We shall try again,
next year. Nothing more can be done."
"I
don't know." My voice is a mere whisper of myself. "I can feel it
from the blade, but it does not answer. I feel—"
I can't
say the word. It catches in my throat, like phlegm on a cold day. Something.
The
children continue to stare at me eagerly, but the adults have given up hope.
They don't want it to sap their souls anymore—they want to be free of this gate
and continue onto the road, even if death is the toll. I don't blame them.
"You
said that last year, you and your forsaken dagger," one of them growls. A
ghost breathes down my neck, but that doesn't help me. The Eve is not past yet,
and the dagger has still to pass judgment. I take a deep breath, commanding my
soul to obey me, and not to become another wandering specter.
"It's
not over yet. There is yet judgment to be given. We must still hope. For—"
Something.
__________________
Thank you for reading! This was just a little something I wrote several years back, and since it's fairly decent and I haven't posted in a while, I figured I might as well put it online. I do have several pieces of new writing I'm working on, however, so I hope that I can be more regular with my posts in the future. I'll see you again soon!
