They say the old well kept a sword for a hundred winters, and the stone remembered every hand that tried it.
Kings came first. They pulled until their crowns slipped, and the stone said nothing.
Then came the strong, with ropes and oxen. The stone said nothing.
Then came the clever, with levers and with gold. The stone said nothing still.
At last a tired knight came, not for the sword, but for the shade of the wall. He went down on one knee before the cool sandstone. One hand rested on the guard, the way you rest a hand on an old friend's shoulder. With the other he raised his visor, so that the stone could see his face.
Smoke rose on either side of him, as if the earth itself had breathed out. And the light woke inside the stone.
He did not pull. He asked: "What will you make of me?"
The sword answered: "Nothing you are not already."
On his shield, two words from an older age: Panta rhei. Everything flows: rivers, kingdoms, the hands that hold a blade. The sword is not a prize. It is a question a man carries until he can answer it.
Made by the wall that leads to the artist's workshop, overgrown with Virginia creeper: plate armour from a historical reenactment club, a well of sandstone with light inside it, real smoke.
Among the knights of My Wonderland, he is one of the few who found what they sought. Those who did not remain in the forest, like the Dark Knight.
(Fine Art Photography. Created in August 2024.)
