It had begun.

The heat of battle tore their home in two.  A line was drawn; the kings were divided, and their people became swept up in a war they did not fully comprehend.

Choose your side!  For what do you stand?  For Glory?  Or for Honor?  Do you fight for a blazing future, for victory, for pushing ahead mercilessly, for being the best?  Or do you fight for virtue, for camaraderie, for doing what is right?

To what does your allegiance lie?  To whom do you swear loyalty?

Banners held high, declaring their side, suddenly the people found themselves divided, each standing behind their king.  Friends became enemies, now separated, swept up in the heat of battle, marching for an ideal they thought they understood, that they were ready to defend, against brothers, at all costs.

Like toy soldiers.

The losses were great.  Tired, and yearning for peace, some fled at the first signs of war and found a new home.  Some were lost in the conflict and never returned.

And as the little kings sheathed their swords, and gazed upon the senseless destruction left in their wake, they found neither the Glory nor the Honor.  The words used as battle cries, banners under which their people marched, were just words.  They were empty.

The true cause of all this destruction, the source of so much pain, and loss, was little more than a bruised ego. A careless word.


This story is called, appropriately, Misère, for they were all poorer in the end.  It was a game that everyone lost.

I wish I could say that this story is a tale of long ago, from a book, perhaps, a story I heard in passing.  But that would be a lie.  Part of this story was penned by my own hand.. and the ink on its pages has not yet dried.