The King In Country

The silent sentinel was perched upon his pedestal of rock with no apparent way of having gotten up, or any easy plan for getting down. It was as if a great flood had torn away all the land around him, leaving him, as the saying goes, high and dry. Rory had always liked the statue. Compounded with the high walls, it offered a sense of protection from the crowds. The statue would keep an eye out, so that he could sleep. In the daylight, he would return the favor, and gaze out the glass of the large French doors in the kitchen as he sipped his tea, weak from several steepings.
Surveying the fields, he would focus on the horizon. One of those dots, at the far edge of the sky, was the city, the expectations, the growing sense of something rooting around inside of him, slithering past his belly-button and nestling against the bottoms of his lungs.
The tea was always more water than anything else, that was just how tea worked. This morning, he sipped it in short sprints, and pretended to read the newspaper.
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