From the tower, I watched the unfolding madness. From behind some stone column, I gazed down at the little hell below. Fire and blood and murder, theft and abandonment and rape. I cried.
Eager, his voice beside me: “What fun,” he said. He’d stepped out into the full light of the inferno, his shadow cast by its orange glow seemed hardly human. Chuckling softly to himself, he asked, “What, do you pity these fools?”
“I pity all who suffer,” I said, “especially these.”
“Why specially?” he laughed.
“They are the grandchildren of great men who did much good, but the children of fools who laughed at their father’s nakedness. Now the liberators’ grandchildren are sold for slaves, and what good they did do, undone, is spit upon.”
“And is that not cause for laughter? London bridges falling down?“
“Were we not the guardians of that bridge, sir? We see the silver and gold being stolen, but what fair lady may we call now?”
“Will we not be free stewards now that our stewardship is failed?” he asked, edging further out and peering down into the chaos.
“Will we be at all,” I asked, “if we be not stewards?”
His scream was the only answer, and quite the final answer, quite apt. He fell into that fire he had so enjoyed from the comfort of his tower. It was just one more scream that night, and I had no more pity left.
Tale Told 