Young Writers Society

Note: I am writing this in the same format as Suzanne Collins wrote the Underland Chronicles. Meaning, I'm not switching points of view after this chapter. Everything will be from Gregor's point of view.

The other thing that'll be different from the rest of my books are that the thoughts are not in italics, but quotation marks instead.

Chapter 1

"Seal the gates! Everybody inside! Soldiers, mount up and prepare for battle!" Luxa shouted. Amongst the frantic soldiers, a large, powerful, glossy black bat swooped in from above.

"Ares?" Luxa asked in awe.

"No, Your Highness." The bat's voice was a low purr that sounded much like Ares's, making Luxa all the more curious. "I am but his own son."

Luxa took a step back in surprise. "His son?" she repeated.

The large bat nodded, and his fur shined in the torchlight, showing that he had a *brindle coat, not just completely black. It shined gold in the light.

"It is the same color as that of Aurora's coat," Luxa thought, but she decided to let it drop. Hazard ran up behind her.

"Cousin! Is there anything I can do that would be of assistance?" he asked.

Luxa remembered what Nerissa had told her the week prior.

"Beware. Though the Warrior is not mentioned in any of Sandwich's prophecies, I have had visions of a great war while we are regrouping. And the warrior is there, too."

"You needn't worry, cousin," said Luxa gently.

She looked at the bat claiming to be Ares's son. "What is your name?"

"Devius," the bat said graciously.

"Devius, know you the location of the entrance to the Overland?" she asked.

"Yes, Your Highness."

She looked between the Halflander child and the bat.

Finally, she made up her mind.

"Devius, are you willing to take Hazard to the Overland in search of the warrior?" she asked, though it wasn't much of a question as an order phrased as one.

Hazard lit up. "Oh! The Overland?"

____________________________________________________________________________________

Gregor sighed boredly as he drummed his fingers on his school desk, trying not to drift off. But it was difficult, as he had no interest in literature whatsoever.

Often, even though it pained him, to stay awake he would repeat the prophecies in his head.

Beware, Underlanders, time hands by a thread.

The hunters are hunted, white water runs red.

The gnawers will strike to extinguish the rest.

The hope of the hopeless resides in a quest.

An Overland Warrior, a son of the sun,

May bring us back light, may bring us back none.

But gather your neighbors and follow his call,

Or the rats will most surely devour us all.

Two over, two under, of royal descent,

Two fliers, two crawlers, two spinners assent.

One gnawer beside and one lost up ahead.

And eight will be left when we count up the dead.

The last to die must decide where he stands,

The fate of the eight is contained in his hands.

So bid him take care, bit him look where he leaps,

As life may be death and death life again reaps.

Oh, he sure knew that one. Almost loathed the thing. The Prophecy of Grey. . . The very thing that had thrown his world into chaos, but had also become his world.

If under fell, if over leaped,

If life was death, if death life reaped,

Something rises from the gloom,

To make the Underland a tomb.

Hear it scratching down below,

Rat of long forgotten snow.

Evil cloaked in a coat of white,

Will the Warrior drain your light?

What could turn the Warrior weak?

What do burning gnawers seek?

Just a barely speaking pup,

Who holds the land of the under up.

Die the baby, die his heart.

Die his most essential part.

Die the peace that rules the hour,

The gnawers have their key to power.

The Prophecy of Bane. Originally, Gregor--and most of the Underland--believed the baby was his sister, Boots. 

But no; the aforementioned infant was the white rat of legend: the Bane. But at the time, oh, the Bane'd just been a baby. Completely innocent--even knowing what it'd do later on, Gregor couldn't have killed it then. Neither the baby nor his heart died.

Warmblood now a bloodborne death,

Will rob your body of its breath,

Mark your skin, and seal your fate.

The Underland becomes a plate.

Turn and turn and turn again.

You see the what but not the when.

Remedy and wrong entwine,

And so they form a single vine.

Bring the Warrior from above,

If yet his heart is swayed by love.

Bring the princess or despair,

No crawlers care without her there.

Turn and turn and turn again.

You see the what but not the when.

Remedy and wrong entwine,

And so they form a single vine.

Those whose blood runs red and hot,

Must join to seek the healing spot.

In the cradle find the cure

For that which makes the blood impure.

Turn and turn and turn again.

You see the what but not the when.

Remedy and wrong entwine,

And so they form a single vine.

Gnawer, human, set aside

The hatred that resides inside.

If the flames of war are fanned,

All warmbloods loose the Underland.

Turn and turn and turn again.

You see the what but not the when.

Remedy and wrong entwine,

And so they form a single vine.

The Curse of the Warmbloods. . . . . . Oh, he'd never forget that. Not in a million years. The Prophecy of Blood was the very thing that had almost killed him, his mother, Howard, Andromeda, Nike, and-and-

Ares.

Though he didn't wish to, he ended up flashing back to the moment they bonded. After his first quest.

The red bat echoed the last words Gregor had heard clearly. "Yes, who among us could ever trust him again?"

"I could!" yelled Gregor, silencing the crowd. "I trust him with my life!" And then he knew that he needed to do.

He ran to Ares and extended his hand. The bat lifted his head in puzzlement, then understood. "Oh, no, Overlander," he whispered. "I could never accept."

Gregor reached out and grabbed the claw on Ares's left wing with his right hand. You could hear a pin drop in the room as he spoke the words.

"Ares the flier, I bond to you,"

That was all he could remember of the pledge Luxa had told him, but she was right behind him, feeding him the words in a whisper.

"Our life and death are one, we two.

"In dark, in flame, in war in strife,

"I save you as I save my life."

Some hope had come back into Ares. The warrior bonding with him was no guarantee he would escape banishment, but it was something that could not be easily ignored. Still, he hesitated.

"Say it," said Gregor softly. "Please say it back."

And Ares finally did, replacing his name with Gregor's own.

"Gregor the human, I bond to you.

"Our life and death are one, we two.

"In dark, in flame, in war in strife,

"I save you as I save my life."

Gregor could feel the tears threatening to flow and had that familiar burning in the back of his throat. "Don't think about it," he thought. "It will only cause you more pain."

Dancing in the firelight,

See the queen who conquers the night.

Gold flows from her, hot and bright.

Father, Mother, sister, brother,

Off they go. I do not know,

If we will see another.

Catch the nibblers in a trap,

Watch the nibblers spin and snap.

Quiet while they take a nap,

Father, Mother, sister, brother,

Off they go. I do not know,

If we will see another.

Now the guests are at our door,

Greet they as we have before.

Some will slice and some will pour,

Father, Mother, sister, brother,

Off they go. I do not know,

If we will see another.

What they had once thought to be a simple, harmless child's rhyme had turned out to be the most horrifying of prophecies to be uncovered.

". . . Fine. Gregor!" He realized that his teacher asked him something.

"Uh, yes, Mr. Fletcher?" Gregor asked nervously. Mr. Fletcher was quick to anger and right now he already looked irritated.

Mr. Fletcher sighed in frustration. "Gregor, I was asking if you would so kindly--" he put an angry emphasis on the word "--read the next few paragraphs in the book. . ."

Gregor looked down at what they were reading for literature: Where the Red Fern Grows. It was apparently some classic - And at times, Gregor did find it interesting. He began to read aloud.

"Our wait wasn't long. My dog's breathing grew faster and faster, and there was a terrible rattling in his throat. I knelt down and laid his head in my lap. Old Dan must have known he was dying. Just before he drew one last sigh, and a feeble thump of his tail, his friendly gray eyes closed forever. At first I couldn't believe my ba--" Gregor cut himself off before finishing the sentence. He'd almost slipped up.

Gregor took a deep breath, then continued.

"At first, I couldn't believe my dog was dead. I started talking to him. 'Please don't die, Ar- Dan,' I pleaded.'" Gregor turned the page, accidentally nicking his finger on the book, causing it to bleed.

The moment of his bond's death flooded his senses.

The feeling of Ares's claw in his hand. There was a white rat. A blue glow. The metallic, coppery smell of blood, whether it be Ares's, the Bane's, or his, he was unaware. The book clattered to the ground as he put his head between his hands and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a guttural cry of pain.

He bellowed an unintelligible word, the sound of utter grief and anguish clear in his voice shocked his fellow classmates and made his teacher drop his clipboard and step back in horror.

"G-Gregor. . ?" Mr. Fletcher asked tentatively. "Are you. . . . alright?"

Mr. Fletcher's words did not mean anything to him, though. His head was swimming and so was the classroom. His teacher's disoriented words and voice barely made it to him.

"Somebody get the nurse. . . " he heard his teacher call before he was enveloped in the sweet bliss of oblivion.

****

"--traumatic experience with this Ares figure. . . ." somebody said. Gregor groaned and struggled to sit up in the bed that was in the nurse's office.

"Ah! You're awake, I see," said the school nurse, Miss Xavier, a motherly woman somewhere in her thirties with a kind smile and glossy chocolate brown hair. She put a hand on his back and helped prop him up on the pillows behind him.

"W- What happened?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He noticed that his parents were in the room with him and the nurse.

"Ah, well, it seems--" Ms. Xavier began.

Gregor's father, Harold, took over.

"You had another. . . . . . Attack," he said.

"Mr. Andrews, you can't just let this keep going! This boy needs help--" she tried to lecture his parents again.

"Enough." This time, it was Gregor who spoke.

"No siree, young man. Not by a longshot--" Ms. Xavier persisted.

"I said enough!" Gregor raised his voice, shocking both his parents and the nurse. "I'm tired of everything!" He let what he'd been thinking for the past four years tumble out in one rant. 

"I understand you mean well, but recommending me to therapist after psychologist after therapist is driving me nuts! Nothing, NOTHING has worked, and you know it!" He gave one last exasperated huff, then silenced himself.

His parents looked at each other in shock, then looked at the nurse.

"Well, I'm no professional, but I certainly know that if the person who is receiving help doesn't want it, it won't do any good," the nurse said. "I'm sending him home for the day, in case he has another attack."