The Iron Flank

A cold, unlit tea light sat crooked inside a blackened iron geometric holder upon the high stone mantel. Its white wax cylinder leaned heavily against the iron bars, tilted in silent disorder above the room. I mounted the stone ridge without pause. Taking a wide, unyielding stance on the dark granite slab, I drove my fist against the tin cup of the candle. The metal base scraped across the rough soot with dry friction before snapping flat into the center of the iron cradle. It rests plumb and fortified in the shadows. The summit is held.