Kralen stared at the empty room. He had longed to get home, to rest, relax and enjoy peace.The room had been stripped of furniture. His enemies had raided the castle and left him nothing. Now in his mind he relived his journey back from the war. All Kralen had wanted was a gentle breeze, a cool breeze, a steady breeze from off the sea. But a boiling sun burnt in a yellow sky, drying the black sand beach sparsely dotted with stunted wind-blown trees and around Kralen the bare rocks radiated heat that drained the strength from him. He would have swallowed, but his parched throat, taut from lack of moisture, felt as if it would crack at the attempt. We need thunder, he thought, we need rain, torrents of rain. The sea, the beach and now the entire landscape had begun to shimmer and he could not keep his eyes focussed on any one object. Trees and rocks became the ruins of houses with walls and floors choked with grass, and the distant mountains took on the shapes of gigantic creatures breathing fire, glaring with coal-red eyes and oppressing him with a feeling of unimaginable evil. Stones and boulders sprang up around him and began to tower into rooms locked in by walls of rock overgrown with moss and lichen; and all at once the dream broke apart and he was back in his own now soulless fortress. Silent and alone but for a solitary lamp he saw again the burning lands, the endless marching lines of soldiers, the long hard-fought battles. The greatness and the glory had been his; every battle had been won. And now? What had he now but memories; dusty memories; half-remembered names and faces that faded a little more every day. Rather he had died in battle than this. (Part of an unfinished tale)