Day 52 – A Title

This is incredibly bad. I forewarn you and request you come back later.

 

Word count: 868

 

 

She stood atop the highest peak in the land, fierce snow whiplashing her face and a strong, liberating wind that threatened to steal her feet from the ground. If she closed her eyes, she thought she were flying. The wind wrapped around her body and whistled sweet nothings in her ear. There was nothing but the temptress of the fall itself.

As far as she could see, there was beauty. Ahead towards the West the snow capped mountains glistened in a pinkish hue as the sun descended behind dark clouds. Streaks of sunlight spliced through the granite clouds and shone down heavenly slices upon the countryside below. Closer, the forests swayed visibly with the coming storm.

With her razor sharp eyes she could see tiny little dots running from their burning villages. The war for the West was drawing to a close. The cities were all but destroyed; every sentinel and every barracks were lit up in flames. The palace was a ruined wreck of rock and stone. The jewels from the vaults were already littered in the treasure troves of the enemy.

Eleven long years they had fought them. Eleven years of slaughter, the fight for survival. Eleven years of loss and grief, of hunger and strife. They were losing. The enemy was winning, they had almost won. But Eldera was standing atop the highest peak in the land.

Her quest was now over. Three years of roaming the mountains had finally brought her to the peak. She was the second person to have ever stood where she now was. She had passed the remains of the first along the way. The map that had taken so many months to find had led her directly to here and the fabled weapon that promised to wipe the enemies’ existence from history was embedded in the rock.

She stroked its tip with her fingers. She had not yet pulled it from the ground. Centuries ago it was melted into the rock and with it a legend was born. Only one who could master the weapon could release it.

As she touched it, she could feel its power consuming her mind. The tales had warned her against such psychological treachery. Legend had it that it would deceive those not worthy of its grip into thinking their friends were foe and only until the person had slain their last trusted friend did they realize what they had done. She could not deny that she did not fear that this might be the case. Was she worthy of its power, was she the one the other legend told of? The legend that spoke of an obscure villager who would crawl out of the mountains and slay her enemy  with one strike of her weapon.

Doubt crept into her mind like a plague. Her hand had been touching the helm of the great sword for many moments now. Should it have presented itself to her by now? Her heart sank. Perhaps se was not the protagonist from the fairytale.  She looked onwards out into the horizon and watched the fires burning her people’s villages to ash. She watched their tiny bodies be chased by the tiny bodies of the enemy soldiers. They were everywhere. There was nothing that could be done now. But instead of sadness, an anger gripped her heart. If she was not the one the tale told of, then who was? Was the entire story a fabricated myth?

A burning sensation melted her fingers to the weapon. She looked down and saw the weapon glowing amber around her palm. The entire mountain range began to quake – from the chasms below rocks and boulders tumbled over the sheer cliffs. She was shaken; she could barely keep her feet on the ground. But her grip on the weapon never wavered and the longer she held on to it the weaker the grip the ground had on it. But the tremors were growing with thunderous power.  Her ankle gave way and her body slipped down the rock. Her feet were dangling over the edge and nothing save a few thousand metres of vacant space lay between her and the valley floor.

With all her strength she hoisted herself back on to the rock by pulling on to the weapon. As her feet found footing once more, she pulled the sword from out of the rock and held it triumphantly before her.

It was lighter than air itself. She weaved it gently and it followed her every move with exact precision. Her hand coiled around the helm perfectly, as if it were tailored just for her. A venomous grin spread across her face as she remembered the rest of the legend.

Her stance poised, she lifted the sword into the air and pictured the faces of every single one fo the enemy soldiers; remembered how they had killed so many;  how they had invaded her land so viciously and., finally, she remembered how they had destroyed her own life. She then sliced the air with a sharp, powerful diagonal movement of victory and as her focus strayed from the blade, she watched as thousands of tiny red dots all fell limply to the ground.

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~ by S.G. Mark on November 28, 2011.

2 Responses to “Day 52 – A Title”

  1. I quite liked it.

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