His Watchtower

I look across the battlefield to the enemy’s rank of foot soldiers standing in front of their commanders poised ready to attack. I stand rigid and pensive because of what is about to commence. Our trusty foot soldiers are in front of me and the courageous knight is at my side. We are ready. I glance over to my king. He stands proud with his queen at his side. I wait.

And then there is movement, their foot soldiers move forward and we respond. Heavy losses on both sides ensue. Our knights attack. It is a bold action but they are outflanked. One falls but the other regroups with our foot soldiers, given encouragement and blessings by their bishop who has advanced in support of them. In another flurry of action there are more casualties. My king is looking concerned and appears vulnerable for his ranks are dwindling. His queen steps forward to protect him and parries a vicious assault.

I desperately think of what I can do to help. I must protect my liege. I urge him to change places. He looks at me through grateful eyes. He now stands where his noble knight once stood. I am by his side in place of his loyal bishop. I think he is safe, but how wrong can I be. In one lethal rapier-like attack our queen falls along with many of our comrades.

It is only a matter of time before surrender. The opposing army hovers like a vulture over a corpse. Our army, in tatters, concedes and for me it is over.

A firm hand grasps my body and tosses me into the prison without windows or a door. The roof closes and darkness engulfs me. When, if ever, will I see the light of day again and encounter a new battle at the side of my king. For I am his watchtower. I am his castle.

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