Once over that emerald crest, great beasts had roamed. Their footsteps shook the earth and their roars filled the heavens.
But in the end the men slew them, with spears of stone and wood and bone. The great beasts were driven out and the spears ruled the hill.
But those spears were buried under grass and dirt, and the elf-riders, beautiful as the stars and mighty as the ocean waves, traversed the green. Their laughter echoed over the land.
But the elves faded into story and song, driven into the deepest darknesses of the world, and the lords of men came, with shining swords and gleaming crowns. They built up the hill, piling the earth high.
But as the ages dragged on, they were buried in it, turning to dust and new men came, men with greater skill. They felled the trees and made great walls of wood upon the mounds that they raised even higher, fashioning a mighty hillfort.
But fire took the wood and death took the men. The conquerors rode in and erected walls of stone, boasting that their fortress would stand forever.
But time tore down those walls as well.
All that remains is the hill.
Word Count: 200
This is my entry for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction.