Con Morhen

Housův mlýn, Tábor 11. - 14. 4. 2024
Srdce z kamene


Sand grains inevitably pour from one bulb to the other. For a troubled mind, the sound is annoying.

He was sitting down in a hastily built tent which offered at least some refuge from the searing sun outside. Little did he care that this temporary abode was far from being as lavishly decorated as he had been used to. His values had shifted – even what he had once considered the single most important was but a faded memory now, stuck somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind.

Absent-mindedly, he stared at the edges of the canvas at the entrance, fluttering in the hot summer breeze. His head pounded with thoughts that were even more scorching. Unexpected consequences of carelessly spoken words.

Echoes of cries of someone who will never cry again.

Death that came too soon, and death that will never come.

The scar on his neck burned especially strongly today, although perhaps he felt the pain in his soul rather than flesh. Lately, there was little he could feel. A heart turned to stone.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a member of his group in the tent. “It’s time, master von Everec,” he said with both respect and worry, “we should be on our way.”

The name meant little to him now. He got up, took his curved sword off the table, sheathed it in the scabbard by his hip, bypassed the man, and walked out of the shadow of his tent, albeit with a shadow in his mind.

The last couple of grains in the hourglass fell through.

The silence was deafening.