Young Writers Society

Note to all who happened to read the original prologue: This chapter is a completely different viewpoint from the prologue, and has very little to do with it. In fact, the prologue I posted won't end up being the actual prologue. The new one is here: http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/work.php?id=99774

Anyway. Here we are:

Everywhere I go, I hear the whispers of people who want me to be their savior.

This fate that has been prophesied, this path inconveniently thrust in my way, is not one of my choosing. I do not have grand dreams; I have no goals of providence, nor do I wish to be inscribed in the records of history as a great man. If it was my choice, it would have been someone else that was foretold by the Timeless Prophecies, not I.

But Destiny does not give much regard to preference.

I often wonder why I was chosen. I have found no clear answer; I have no abilities in combat, no inherent drive to destroy evil. See, I have heard it is wrong to question gods.

But sometimes I still wonder.

The world around me is a frozen one. Snow spins down from the heavens, adding to the blanket that already rests lightly on the ground, hiding the hard dirt and rock and patches of dying grass. Icicles sparkle on the rotting wood of long-ago burnt houses and the empty branches of the trees that climb up from the ruins. It stretches for miles in all directions, the hollow city of burnt, decaying houses lying in a scorched and torn-up landscape. Even though Kar is near the city, we do not go in, not ever. Not because of a superstition, not because of a fear of some lurking creature.

Because of a fear of ourselves. A fear of the memories that lie there, decaying with the city.

The sun hangs low over the western horizon, its light creating at best a distilled glow. About twenty feet behind me, the ground drops off, leaving a sheer cliff of dark red rock. Here, a damp odor lies upon the usual perpetual smell of smoke. The sky is a grey mass of clouds saturated with frozen droplets, creating an altogether depressing effect, if I may say.

That may be unreliable, though, because at the moment there are other things depressing me.

Footsteps crunch in the snow behind me. I turn only the slightest amount, enough to see, out of the corner of my eye, Leik. He steps up beside me quietly, remaining silent. I do as well, staring out into the fading light of the horizon.

After a moment, Leik breaks the silence by saying, “It’s tonight, then.”

“Yes,” I say.

He pauses, waiting for me to say more. I don’t, so he continues. “You’re going to try to escape?”

“Yea.”

He pauses again. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

“Nay, friend. Not in the slightest. It’s quite unadvisable, really. Flaunting my heroic duties will bring the Watchers down on me, and disobeying the Timeless Prophecies will probably warrant the wrath of Destiny itself.”

“But you’re still going to do it?”

“Sure.”

Leik eyes me, then sighs. “I can’t change your mind, of course.”

“No. But I’m sure you’ll try.”

Leik shrugs. “There are people counting on you, Aelie. Relying on you to save them from, from this.” He punctuates this by waving his hand at the horizon, towards the rotting city.

“Objection noted, friend.”

"And then ignored, I'm sure."

I shrug, then turn to Leik. “Well. This is goodbye, then, for now.”

“Yeah.”

I put out my hand, and he shakes it. “If I get away...the Western Ledge. Meet me there.”

“I will.”

I look at him for a moment, then nod, turning away. The last rays of the sun glitter in the distance. Behind them, through the falling snow, I see a red glow. For a moment, I’m puzzled, until I realize that it’s from a fire. Torches.

The Watchers.

I begin to walk towards the light, stepping carefully over the rough rock in the darkness. The light nears, and I wave my arms to let them see me. They do, and begin to walk towards me. “Greetings, comrades," I call. "How goes...” As I say this, I notice something strange.

Another light, a cluster bobbing in the darkness, perhaps a hundred yards to the left of the first.

This first one nears; the sun is completely gone now, the light from the moon above not much. It is enough, however, for me to make out the cloaks of the three figures who carry the light.

A dull grey. Not the brown of the Watchers.

Lavaeran soldiers.

I freeze, staring directly at the one who walks in the lead. He stops, but the other two keep walking, stepping up beside me and grabbing my arms. I try to pull away, but their grip is firm.

The man before me speaks, and his voice is like the sound of boots crunching on gravel. “We don’t want any problems,” he says. “You come willingly, or we slaughter your people.”

I finally manage to pull my arms free and I stumble backwards, turning to find two more soldiers cloaked in grey. I stop.

Abruptly, one of them collapses with a grunt; the other follows. A knife glints as Leik steps forward. “Get away from him,” he growls. In a moment the soldiers have swords in their own hands. One steps toward me and Leik throws his shoulder into the soldier, knocking him back.

“Go, Aelie!”

Leik kicks one Lavaeran’s legs from under him, then spins, blocking the swipe of a second.

“GO!”

I am still standing, frozen, staring at the Lavaeran. As I watch, one soldier swings his sword, and the blade pierces Leik’s chest.

He falls, limp.

I stumble backwards. Leik. The world around me spins, the soldiers blurring. My thoughts bounce through my head, interfering with each other, not allowing me to make out the contents of any. The self-preservation evoked by a sword swinging in close proximity brings me back to the present, and I turn, dashing for the cliff, yelling soldiers in pursuit. I trip in the darkness, then scramble back to my feet, continuing to run. I risk a glance back. From the south, soldiers cloaked in brown are running towards the Lavaeran. The second light. I also make out figures running from the city, calling out, engaging the Lavaeran. For me. They’re fighting for me.

And Leik died.

To save me.

All because they think I am destined to be the Sentinel.

The soldiers stumbling after me are gaining. The edge of the cliff is only five yards away. One soldier is within arm’s distance. He dives, reaching for me.

So I jump, leaping off the edge of the cliff, hurtling myself into the spinning snowfall.