Memorial

He lies sleeping in stone, reclining on a pedestal devotedly polished by a thousand hands for his eternal rest. Resplendent in the armor that marked him as fearless on the battlefield, he is coifed and clad mail. The rings are bent but unbroken, his flesh bruised but whole just as it was before he entered his final battle. His hair, clean and even, peeks out in the wild twists and curls that marked his fierceness, his courage, his passion.

A sword has been worked into his hands, naked steel clutched to his chest like a talisman or a shield. Its tip rests near his boots as it had after so many victories when he dropped to one knee thanking his gods for the strength to overcome his adversaries, thanking his gods for their blessings and protection. His is pose of peace after conflict, marking him as a hero fallen in battle.

Three more swords adorn the pedestal, one building upon the next. At the top, the sword of his father marks the house and family whose honor he maintained. In the middle, the sword of his king and country, the realm he swore to defend from invasion and assault. At the bottom, the sword of his faith that formed the foundation of his every deed and action.

Passing strangers who view this monument see the end of an age. Some mourn a lost prince, the last Defender of their Faith, the final Protector of their Realm. Others believe he will rise reborn, returning in their time of need to shield their nation once again from enemies within and without. A few see this hero reborn each day in the eyes of the children whose parents worship him as a savior.

The handful who gather closer begin to perceive the flaws eating at the monument's structure and hierarchy. The swords set into pedestal are tarnished and discolored. To him family was more an obligation than real flesh and blood, his daily interactions sacrificed to duty. As Lord Protector, he stained his sword more with the blood of his countrymen than that of any outsiders or invaders. As Defender of the Faith, he aggressively wielded that sword to enforce the tenets of a religion based on peace. Even the sword poised upon his chest remains flecked with the blood of battle, no one having thought to clean it before committing him to stone. Unable to bear the weight above, the monument's foundation crumbles along its edges as gilt slowly flakes to rust.

Through the rain and ice and heat of each passing season, the memorial slowly cracks and splits open as if struggling to contain its secrets. Each year, his admirers patch the polished stone with concrete, hoping to conceal the nature of the man enshrined within.


© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III