War of Kings

There are no heroes or epics in this scorched earth. There are only living people and dead people. There are only words buried under the ruins that have not yet been finished. Only the wind blows over and over again, blowing through the oak castle, blowing through the valley town, blowing across the ice field, blowing through the sword that is embedded in the stone and no one can pull it out again. There is a line of small words engraved on the hilt of the sword. The person who did the carving probably had poor eyesight and the strokes were crooked. The inscription reads: "Drink for me." I don't know for whom. I don't know where to drink. What to drink. But this is probably what those of us who are still alive should do. The wind picked up again. My strings are shaking. I have to go. Going north, I heard that the snow there had melted, and things buried under the snow were exposed. Some people saw fire and heard someone singing. Maybe, that's a new story.