The fickle candle lights produced eerie shadows on the murky wall tapestries. He could almost hear the roar of the battlefield, the general yelling the strained commands to his soldiers, knowing that the battle was already lost. The desperate neighing of horses, the silent victims of every war. And the desperate screams of those young soldiers, barely men, that were flung from the safety of their poor houses straight into the deepest pit of hell. And there was no escape. No escape.
His eyes rested on the intricate ceiling of his sleeping chamber. The weaving shapes and arches created a sort of cathedral look. Like a house of the holy. Quite ironic, he mused smiling slightly.
The bedpost was adorned with chubby cherubs that were smiling unnervingly. Whatever the architect had in mind is beyond him. The little, fat angels looked neither cute nor good. If any they looked like wolf in sheep’s skin, ready to lurch at your throat with their round, tiny arms. Squeeze the life out of you.
He unconsciously touched his throat as if checking if everything was alright.
He knew this rooms like the back of his own hand. Every crook and cranny, every shadowy figure and every muted sound did not surprise him in the least.
Insomnia tends to do that to people. They become increasingly perceptive.