Once, as I trod upon the sweet, sandy beaches of some of some sad twilight sea, I came across towering battlements and crumbling spires of white stone—a stately though broken fortress of the ancient people of this shadowed land. The bronze gates loomed open in front of me, and the soft shadows within promised relief from the heat of the evening, so I entered, the scuffling of my feet shattering the ruin’s silence.
As I explored the empty chambers and lonely courts, where chipped stone fountains had long since ceased to flow, I half-fancied I heard greetings echoing across the fallen arches and broken cobblestones. They came to my ears distantly, like a memory of past eons or a misty dream: the clarion call of the trumpet, the shouts of adoration, the clattering of horses’ hooves, and the stately clip of the chariot wheels.
Perhaps it was the dusty cobwebs and unswept floors whispering out into the dark, hoping, yearning that I should be one of those that were here before. Who they were I know not, save that they were rich, for fine silks and linens lay rotting in the closets, and tarnished silver platters still lined the oaken tables. What drove them hence and where they went is likewise unknown to me, though surely no mortal foe could have driven them from their stronghold.
They loved the light. They had many windows facing East to hail the dawn, and many windows facing West to mourn the nightly passing of the Sun. The windows are broken now, though the dusty light still streams in. The soft, cool shadows suddenly ceased to hold any comfort for me, so I turned aside and left the white ruins by that twilit sea of shadows, with its columns and arches and fountains and broken windows. The echoes still call out to me, but I cannot respond, for their Master and their Mistress are gone, now. Perhaps forever. |
|
