One last time

It was nightfall. He could see the purple sky and the stars coming out, one at a time, forming a pattern. It would be the last time he shall ever have to look out through the crack in the wall. or read by the light of a lantern.
The warden opened the heavy wooden door. 

For the first time the jailer and the captive would meet. The prisoner imagined his oppressor to be a giant of a man, without a heart or a soul. And the jailer had been wanting to see this particular prisioner, for since the time he had come in , he neither did mourn , nor cry , nor wept. All these years he never spoke and only one book he kept. When they locked eyes , neither said a word .

His body ached with every step. He felt his legs fail as he passed each cell and heard a cry like from within a well.Haunting. The cry of souls who had accepted destiny. A cry he wished never to hear again. He was fortunate. And it shall always remain a mystery. Many a men had walked in to this place,none had ever walked out.

The sun was completely set when he set foot outside. He saw a carriage at the corner of the street and painfully walked towards it. He could see that the horse was old and lame. The journey back would be long and arduous and hoped at the end of it he would be sane
.
The carriage trotted from the countryside to town. There was no one in sight , not a soul was out in this bitter night. The wind howled in the deserted alleyways. The windows loose on their hinges smashed against their panes. No light in any house, neither were there stray dogs chasing mouse. There was only the moonlight guiding the carriage.It  seemed like a ghost town, deserted by a war savage.

As the carriage came to the main market, he saw a huge circular stage and shops in concentric circles. He saw the potters wheel outside one , the broken sign board of a baker, a deserted library and a burnt down black smith's workshop.

What would it be like to be a potter ? To create magic out of brown clay !. To mold to any shape and size, to paint it any color , how nice ! To yell and sell his proud ware on a busy market day. Small and big, yellow and the colour of fig. Jugs and jars to keep water and cinamon tarts. He would have made pots fit for Kings ! Where Kings would keep their gold but no matter how many he sold, he shall always have been a proud soul .

He wiffed freshly baked bread ! To makes vanilla cakes and strawberry tarts. To treat little children with yellow jello and raspberry pudding. To decorate them with chocolate frosting. To bake for christmas, to bake for new year, to bake for thanksgiving , to bake for valentines , to bake for the joy of. To create for the love of it all ! How happy must he be to see, people from all the land flocking to his shop to have a slice of this and a bite of that. To have magic on his fingertips to make people smack their lips.

He imagined the librarian to be a scrwany little man sitting all day below a ceiling fan . To have small ears, thin lips and glasses that never stood on his nose. A man who smelt like old books. Who stooped when he walked and asked to you to hold you silence when you talked. To be the giver of the best gifts of all ! To be able to travell sitting right there in the library hall. To go to foreign lands and hold beautiful dame's hands. To be able to bewitch by telling a tale, to hold an audience with rapt attention and be at the reciving end of everyone affection.

He heard the blacksmith's hammer against hot iron. Over and over again he beat the metal to shape. Over the hot furnace bright shown his face as he sweated over making over a mace . He would make knives and daggers, and axle for wheels lest they swagger. He would make horseshoes for the King's stables and for the Queen's mare.

 He travelled for seven winter nights. He saw what lives so bright. Farmers and painters. Musicians and teachers. Poets and jesters. But he would not have the right to choose. He was born into what he became, no matter what he won, in the end he would loose. He lamented on the gross unfairness of it all and he became forlorn. To have his future laid out befor he was born.

To have to perform every mundane task to perfection. To have lost an entire childhood in fake salutation. To have no friend save his golden sword. To spend his youth fighting and being bold. While his peers where out seeing the wonders of the world, he set out to destroy it. While they romanced maidens with white skin and golden hair , his body winced in pain as he learned to fight with flair.

On the eighth day, he chariot finally came to a halt. In front of a mansion he never saught. People rushed to his side. But none of them his former bride. He saw his reflection on the blade upon first sight. "Old friend, once again we are together " he said as he clasped it with all his might. "My only friend , so once again we unite ! ". He held it like it was to be revered. He could not count the times with blood it was smeared. He walked in, no one dare speak, for compared to their lord they were meek.

He climbed the stairs one at a time. Thirty seven before he came to the end of the line. He had held himself all along, and his heart was filled with a melancholic song . But now time had come for true silence. No longer did he wish to show resilience.

His friend and he were united for one last time. And the sun reflected of the blade and it truly did shine for one last time.