That's Me in The Corner

The tower was silent, up top it kept its dead. Its defenders lie in the plain, further out in the open sky. At the base of the tower, past the deep mud footprints, lay the crumpled body of the commander. His chest was a quiver of arrows. Blood force-fed the saturated earth in pools and streams.

The old priest with creaking bones and writhing back grunted. Pulling his feet through the mud and his hands dragging the mud-ridden corpse of the priest’s son to the tower. The horde had come to him, but seeing the abundance of rotting flesh and the lack of treasure left him to his fate.

And so the one-eyed one persisted; he dragged the trampled rider up the tower, past the commander and the flies who colonized his mouth. Once he had reached the top of the steps, the priest knew he would join them.

Outside of the tower, there was no trace of the Persians or their procession. Even the deep mud-canyons and craters left from their boots and carts were paved over. Replaced by the thousands of hoofprints following their steps to the city walls, holding nothing.

The Iron gate was opened from the inside. The low walls, which may have offered some resistance if they were manned, accepted the ladders that impregnated them without resistance. A chained beast wheezed under a pile of stones.

In the dusky sky, the dimming red sun was revoking its gift of light to the day. The silver bones and golden feathers of the temple lost their lustre from the outside. Only from the inside could the dull shades inhabiting the city see illumination. The fire still burned inside the temple.​​

Away from the temple, the soft chirps of their glottal tongue were heard around the fortress. Vulture nestlings in braids and fledglings in wool searched among the houses for something to show their parents and peers.

Tapestries were ripped off the walls. Wrapped around young shoulders like shawls, as young girls performatively spun around. Stones with etchings were tossed to find a few hidden gold coins or metal ornaments.

The men and armor were now gathered around two figures. One was even more grandly armored. Instead of a veil of chainmail, the man wore a bronze mask of an emotionless face. The large black eyes stared opposite an elderly man with a grey beard and angular cheeks. He was draped in white and blue, and his head was adorned with eagle feathers. The mystic man spoke the same glottal tongue, but did so with a rhythm and cadence unique to him.

Rain began to fall as they conversed. The troops and women not gathered in the circle marched their horses into the mudbrick houses. Taking shelter among the thatched roofs and painted guardians. The man in the mask pointed to the temple and the flame when speaking to the mystic in white. The mystic chanted a few words before nodding.

The man in gold walked into his newly acquired fire temple. His retinue followed. They looked to see the large black vase holding the ceremonial flame.

"Oling," said the Khan.

"Oling," said the retinue, shouting at the men outside the temple where the flame danced around the silver bones.

Women and children brought their offerings of wood, they brought their offerings of meat, and of vegetables.

The fire was made brighter than it ever was. The wood and fuel placed before it transformed the sacred flame from a flicker to a roar. Meat was pierced on Iron rods and offered to the flame. An iron pot filled with water and vegetables was placed on top of the wood and coals. The temple's faint residue of incense was overwhelmed by the smell of roasted meat and onions.

The conquering army would eat well tonight.