[ TT ] [ IP ] Somber Castle

Life is grey, so far North. 
 
 Even this early in the afternoon the sun was already well past its zenith, sinking slowly through the banks of darkling cloud towards the horizon, its pale rays washing out what little colour there was left in these old, stone walls. 
 
 No one comes here now; not for years. No life, no laughter, save the jeering of the ravens as they wheel overhead, and the silent judgement of the grass fighting for life between the ever-widening cracks of these broken flagstones. I watch them sometimes, as I roam these abandoned halls; watch them chase one another to first one tower then the next in their eternal and pointless game of musical chairs. There was always one to land at the very top, confidently soaring on high to land precisely on the gargoyle's wing, as if impudently defying nature to blow him off of his self-appointed throne. But she never did: it was always another raven, a contender to the old lord that came to take his place, casting him down. How ironic, after all this time, the ravens were acting out a playful mockery of the machinations that brought the castle to its knees. 
 
 Below those twin lofty peaks the winding corridors and immense halls spread out under the gaze of the gargoyles, their eyes as sharp as ever they had been, scrying out every new detail to be had in this sterile place. In the main hall, bereft of its roof, an insolent talon disloges a pebble from a ruined vault, and the watchers observe its fall through the air, to land with the harsh chink of stone on stone, bouncing a few meters to finish its course nestled in a clump of weeds. It would likely remain there until the end of time, undisturbed, forgotten, brought low by mere unhappy chance. A story the gargoyles knew too well: strewn at the foot of the towers lay several of their brethren. Would that I could help them, but... I can not. High up on the vault the raven remains oblivious to his actions. And why should he not, indeed. This place holds no meaning for him, no more than does the rock on which it is built, or the mountain on the horizon. It is his home, to do with as he pleases, unencumbered with the past or the future. The purpose of the pebble he brought down is no more, the roof is gone, why should the pebble not follow suit? He is right: it is a fitting end... 
 
 There is no life in me now. I am as dead as this castle. A captain goes down with his ship, they say, and so the king is entombed within the walls of his kingdom. Ghosts and memories are all that remain of me and mine, but which one am I? I can no longer tell. Perhaps I was that king. Perhaps I am nothing more that what these old walls knew of him. `` If these wall had ears,'' people used to say. Maybe they do.
