In days of old, the marble statues had lined the streets, painted in colours bold and regal. Hair of gold and silver had hung over the points of their ears and shadows had played over their sharp features. The statues, like their makers, had been beautiful. Nobody argued with that.
But their beauty was a terrible one, an inhuman one. It was a beauty to bewitch the senses, to make the blood run cold. This was the way of the Elf Lords, who reigned after the Dragon’s Fall, in the days of white cities and tall statues.
When the revolution came, the dark undercurrent finally bursting to the surface in a surge of fiery war, the statues were the first to go. The hammers fell upon beautiful faces, striking and striking until they were dust.
Now, in the ruins of the old city, all that remain are fragments: bases with no figures, chunks of unidentifiable marble, the precious reduced to refuse.
And on quiet nights, when the earth is still and the air is full of memory’s bittersweet scent, the ghosts of long-dead lords – pale as fresh-fallen snow, insubstantial as the morning mist – stand over the ruin of their works.
Word Count: 200
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Go check out the other entries!