Tournament

100-word story written on the 100th day of 2012.

He looked out over the tournament grounds. All was silent. No evidence remained of what had taken place there. Her cries of frustration still rang in his ears, though she no longer was there. The only part of her remaining was the bit of lace he held between his fingers. He looked back at the castle walls. This was his home. It should be her home, too. Instead, it was her prison. He looked at the fabric in his hand. No, this had to be her home, and he was intent to make it so.