Poem, Sagas, Short story

A gate.

Cobbled together with what was at hand, the innocuous stones were joined. Pressed with mortar and left to cure, the arch stood without a gate for months.

The smiths worked long and hard, the miners in their darkness too, and all the while the wooden defenses stood guard as that fort was built.

The flame of a single flame could have taken that place in a moment, the rush of siege only slowed, the lord watched down every day with fear for what might come.

The work was hurried but not made with haste, for the careless make weak what is strong, and as the days passed and weeks followed suit, the lord grew more fearful and tired.

When at last one day the gate had been made and settled within its new home, the lord ordered closed and locked in an instant that gate as he finally slept.



A prompt response.

11 thoughts on “A gate.”

  1. Perhaps he only sleeps until England wakes to call upon him. Yet deep is the sleep where dreams are real to pascify even the most aggressive of those who would other stand prepared.


  2. Might have been more amusing if he were Irish, but there’s only so much that can be done with shaking legs and spiked colour-changing hair before people start assuming it’s actually a Japanese cartoon.

    Liked by 1 person

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