Friday, July 06, 2007

Lances Leaving

The Black Knight turned his horse around for a last look at the Great Castle. From here he could just see the Keep. As the last of the light glinted off his broken lance, a fire could be seen in the Great Hall. It seemed smaller and darker somehow.

The Black Knight sat still for a moment and reflected.

The jousting was complete, the banquet demolished. The parchments were all scribed and the banners furled. Not all the maidens were rescued and not all the dragons slain, and there were a few ghosts left too, but a quest had been made. A promise honoured. The Great Book held the story.

The enchanted cave, off to one side, was silent, waiting for another to carry the Golden Bough. In the twilight it looked more like a tomb. The Black Knight sighed as he remembered his days as a squire. He'd carried the standard once. No more. The flags were bright then, the days long, the armour polished, and the carousing ... oh, the carousing.

In the distance, from the stables, a soft neigh. Or was it imagination? No, it was the wind of change rustling the trees.

The Black Knight dipped his lance briefly in mute (and mock) salute, drew his broadsword and hefted it against an unseen enemy in the night, then galloped off without a backward glance. A mace at his side, an open field, witches in their lair, what else would be found?

There are always more windmills to tilt at.

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