The Last Hope

Fire on the page. A mad, hastened scrawl. Trembling hands and stifling desperation. The last hope.

Death, wailing outside, slamming on the doors, banging on the window shutters, begging to be let in. Its stench already penetrating, stifling, nauseating.

This Great Casualty of prosperity come to light. Those fated words, repeated. May peace never falter; may the Good King rest.

An old wound weeps new blood.

Fire on the page. Death’s cries answered. Shutters open. Fire in the streets. A Great Casualty set alight. Flesh burns. An arrow sings. Bone flies. Death and life both still.

Quickly, brutally. This is how a life is taken.
May peace never falter; may the Good King rest.

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