He made his house from old stones. One came from an arena, stained with the blood of a thousand fighters, echoing still with the laughter of the crowd. Another was from a pyramid, worn by wind and sand and silence. A third was part of a tower, drinking tears and hearing laments.
They were stones full of memory, stones full of power. He made his walls of them, a fortress to keep out his foes. Spells dashed themselves against the rock and he was safe from their touch.
But when night fell and he lay in his bed, surrounded by old books, he heard the stones whispering and groaning and shifting. He tossed and turned but they would not be silent. Incantation after incantation he tried, but still the stones would not be tamed, would not be broken.
He had made his fortress, but it was a prison too.
Word Count: 149
This is for FFfAW. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Jade M. Wong for providing the prompt photo!