This tale is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday #writephoto prompt.
For long years it had been a round tower, a holy place pointing to the heavens, where the ritual of prayer followed the mounting stairs, where chieftains of the lake conferred with their god. For years the chief wound his way in the path of his holy men, hoping to bind the strength of their god with his own. And for years, the god was with him. He held his place, his sons grew strong and healthy, his flocks and herds increased, and he followed the relics and the chanted spells round the tower to gaze down in satisfaction on his tribal lands.
Then, one black day, the invaders came in their narrow ships. The cowardly warriors clad from top to toe in iron, who used the long bow, the coward’s weapon rather than risk their skins in true combat. They brought their own god with them, a god that echoed vaguely the chief’s god, the god who rode into battle between his father and his mother, and held the chief in his embrace like a brother. But the god of the iron men was a dead god who rode in no chariot, and ruled alone. He hung from a tree in his blood, and he had no more need of a father, a mother, or a brother than any other dead man. Perhaps the monks feared this bloodless god. Perhaps that was why they fled when the iron men encircled the tower where the chief prepared to meet them with his spear and his sons at his side.
Continue reading: Flash fiction #writephoto: Old gods – Jane Dougherty Writes