This is Fiction #1 The Watchman

This is Fiction #1 The Watchman
Photo by Tim de Groot / Unsplash

Like a band of regulators, they mounted their steeds of steel. The morning's rise shone with crimson, as if Excalibur itself had slit open the sky. The dancing brush could not contain the flurry of sand that flecked upon the brows and beards of the would-be usurpers. They had to press on.

Deeds needed to be done before they reached the inevitable crossroads where the ultimate task would be completed. They had to press on.

The squires were already squirming, drenched in sweat. This was no place for the weak. Their dusty boots crushed stones in time with the marching drums. The sun stole away the red with its ascent; the only crimson remaining was soaked into the blowing sands.

Anticipation built as the sun taunted them from the highest point of the sky. The relentless heat seemed meant to break a man, but these men were unbreakable. They had a thirst for honor and victory, though the ale had gone stale and warm. The men were at the mercy of the heat.

Still, they pressed on.

Finally, the “X” of the crossroads appeared. Yet, nothing but small furry beasts awaited. Murmurs spread through the caravan. How could this be? The chieftains were certain this was the place of culmination. Yet, there was nothing—nothing but jackrabbits and sand. As the sun flirted with the sandstone horizon, the fury in the hearts of the men calmed. They needed rest.

Just then, a forerunner spoke with the conviction of a pharaoh. “There is a river less than a furlong to the northeast. The men can water their horses and make camp.”

So it was commanded.

The lone scout peered at the moon, and the river below glistened with silver in his eyes. The wind was ever-present. He watched with the vigilance of a Saharan cat for an enemy he knew would never come. As he observed, he felt a creeping sensation, wrapped up like a snake, whispering that he was meant for more. But if not this, then what?

He shook it off. There was no time for such fantasies now.

He perched precariously on a bit of stone jutting out from the riverbank. The moon had moved to the other side of the sky, and the surrounding stone glimmered with tiny beads of sparkling light. He wondered how so much beauty could exist in a world full of deceit and death. Once again, he shook off the thought.

The moon promised the sky that morning would soon be there. The solo watchman could already hear the rustling of his waking companions and the grumbling of words like “spy” and “saboteur.” Group paranoia had begun to creep in.

A subtle orange haze began to wisp along the eastern horizon. He noticed a nearby ant colony starting the day’s work, hauling tiny pieces of debris and crumbs here and there. It reminded him of the marketplace from his boyhood home—people bustling around with baskets and handcarts. It all seemed so chaotic. He concluded that man was not so different from ants. He even considered smashing the ant hill to witness the ensuing pandemonium. This thought was cut off by the bleating of horns and pounding war drums. He glanced to the west. Nothing. To the east now. There they were. The hostiles had crested the ridge. It was finally time. All the training, all the marching, all the sleeping on the hardened earth—destiny awaited just beyond a small bend in the river.

He thought of the ants again and, to his surprise, let out a soft but audible chuckle. Then he went to ready his weapons. The battalion decided to move west, where the slight bend in the river protected them from an eastern flank. This ensured they could not be attacked from the rear. As they waited, the watchman attempted to steady his mind. He could hear captains barking orders from the back of the formation—close enough to hear but far enough to be nothing more than muddled grunts. Closer to him, he could actually hear laughter. The men were cracking jokes and being jovial in the midst of their possible deaths. These men were made for war; they even craved it. But the watchman was here out of necessity, not desire.

Their rivals were only a few hundred yards away now and had also grown still, if only for a moment. Then came the charge. The watchman readied himself. Suddenly, an understanding washed over him: this was just a chapter in his life, the pressure in which he was being forged so that he might keep such disciplines in his future self. He finally desired glory and victory. As soon as the acceptance washed over him, the two armies began to rush toward one another, gathering speed as they got closer. Then the two armies crashed together like ocean waters beating a rocky shore. To the watchman, it was complete chaos. Splintered wood and flashing steel were all he could see. He parried a blow from a rider, turned, and shot a bolt into the small slit between the rider’s shoulder and neck. The rider fell, and his mount-less horse continued onward. He thought of the ants again—how he had wanted to smash them and watch the resulting chaos. Instead, such pandemonium was now his.

Just then, a heavy blow struck him hard in the ribs. He lost his balance and struggled to breathe. He wondered how large the man who wielded such a fist must be. Just then, the warm blade withdrew from between his ribcage, he realized it was no fist. He fell backward, sunlight flooding his vision, and his eyes remained open. His dreams of glory dripped out with his blood. As he lay dying, he thought of the ants.


I’ve bern wanting to start this new segment for a long time. I find it to be emotionally taxing to write on such heavy topics so I’d like to use this segment as kind of a creative break. I hope you can all enjoy this new perfectly average segment This is Fiction.

As always thanks for reading, I love you all,

kind regards,

Average Benjamin.