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Since everyone seems to be doing it.
WARNING: Kirby has the inane ability to make people cry, gasp, or grow very, very angry....at her. (What's inane mean again? O.o)
Rated PG13, borderline R--most of my books are, anyway.
EXCERPT
Year: 4024
Haenir wiped sweat from his eyes as he ran, breathing hard byt never letting himself slow down. He had been running for hours without stopping, and like the rest of his small militia, he was exhausted. They were behind him, though if he had turned, he would have seen them following him in the distance; he was young and strong, and could have run for days without stopping if he had wanted to.
But he did not have days. If he was lucky, he would have less than an hour to stop the batallion of the rebel army from crushing the tiny lakeside city, Leigh, beneath their feet. And luck had not been with any of them so far. This war had lasted for more than a thousand years, and it was unlikely that it would ever end.
Haenir could not remember how many times his mother had told him stories of heroes who had died in battle as he was growing up. He recalled as his feet brushed the grass the many tales of bravery, chivalry, and ultimately, sorrow, all blended together as one in his mind. He had been eager to hear them all, fascinated, until the day he found out that every single one of them was true. The heroes had died in battle only days before his mother had passed their legacies onto him. And since then, and in the light of his father's own death on the battlefield, his one and only wish was to end the war forever.
But as he skidded to a halt on the crest of a towering cliff, skirting the lake's edge, he knew the end of the war was very far off indeed.
The lake was huge, and stretched out to every horizon like the sea, but neither the ocean's wild, salty smell, nor the aroma of rainwater and flowers floating on the water, was present today. And the water, once clear blue, was now pitch black.
He stared for a long time at the charred ruins of Leigh, now only so much ash and charred wood. A heavy, warm gust of air blew his ebony hair out of his face, bringing the smell of rain underneath the overwhelming odor of black smoke, blood, and death.
The wind carried yet more ash into the lake, covering the withered flowers floating in groups on the surface in stripes of deep, lusterless black. Haenir breathed in the ash, coughing hard in an effort to clear his lungs, his eyes burning.
Cursing, he swung himself over the cliff and climbed nimbly down with all the agility of an elf. He let himself fall a short distance form the gournd and broke into a run again, heading for the sad remains of the town.
He stopped dead as his feet met ash. "Hello?" he called, his voice unsteady. "Can you hear me?"
Not a word, only burned and blackened silence.
"Is anyone alive?" he shouted, as loudly as he could. No answer.
As he walked slowly through the silent town, his feet sinking into ask like deep snow, he saw hundreds of limp figures crushed beneath heavy beams and stones, hundreds of men, women, and children lying utterly still on the street, blanketed by ash, hundreds of staring, fearful eyes watching him with every step he took. He kept walking, shouting again and again until his voice broke and he felt like he was going to be sick. Why would anyone do such a thing? he thought sadly. What could these people have done to deserve such a thing?
Not a soul was left alive to answer him.
He stopped on the bank of the black lake and waited for the rest of the small militia to catch up.
"Haenir! Haenir, the town's destroyed! What the hell could have happened?"
He stared out over the dark water, stunned. "No one was left alive," he said, hardly believing the words that issued from his mouth. "Not a single one of them was left alive."
They all turned urgently to their leader, all of them far older than he. "Haenir, what should we--"
"Help!" a weak voice interrupted. "Please! Help us!"
They all started, their eyes darting towards the ruins of the town. Haenir's eyes, however, were on a vague form beneath the surface of the water, swimming desperately for shore. He stepped into the water to meet it, and in an eruption of bubbles it emerged--but for a moment, he was not sure what it was.
"Help!" it gasped, and then he recognized it as a young mermaid, her hair and skin stained black with ash that made her unrecognizeable and weighed her down to the point where she could hardly move. She coughed heavuly, polluted water dripping off of her, and slumped onto the black sand. Haenir crouched down and took her hand as she lay there, cughing, for a long time. His followers had turned to stare and were horrified at their visitor, but all he felt was sadness.
"The water has turned black," she whispered croakily, ash coating her throat. "My people..." She broke off, coughing violently. "My people are dying...the lake is a place of death that we cannot escape...we have done nothing...nothing...please, help..."
"It's all right," Haenir told her gently. "We will help. Your people will be saved."
But she was not listening as, with a hoarse breath, she shuddered and lay still.
Haenir bowed his head, lifting her still form and lowering her gently back into the water, where she sank out of sight.
"The merpeople have done nothing in this war," he said quietly to those behind him, hanging on his every word. "They have been stranded in the water and have hurt no one these past thousand years. And yet, even they are killed." Hot tears burned in his eyes as he called over the black water, reflecting the dark clouds as they came rolling in. "Will there be no end to this war?" he shouted to the heavens.
As if in response, distant thunder rollled in from the south, and heavy raindropsbegan to fall onto the lake's surface. He gritted his teeth together in frustration, the taste of ash in his mouth, and tears and rain alike cut tracks through the layers of grime on his arms and face. Why did this happen? he demanded of the world. Why did this war ever start? There are many different races, and they have a right to disagree...but why must people die? Why has peace eluded us?
And then he noticed that he was completely alone. Every single one of the men and women that had followed him were lying unconscious on the ground.
What in the world...?
But he was distracted by a bright light far out onto the lake. At first he thought it was lightning, but it seemed more steady, more whole...and it was slowly falling to the surface of the dark water. He stood on the edge of the lake, enraptured by the pure white light, and he kept his eyes on it as it slowly started to move toward him.
It was a woman, but the most imposing, striking, godlike woman he had ever seen; her long black hair flowed to her waist and her skin was as white as mountain snow, her feet hovering inches above the water as she walked towards him, her eyes locked on his. And what eyes...deep, silvery-grey, filled with a world of wisdom and knowledge. And it was her eyes that assured him, more than anything else, that this woman was far form mortal.
A deity... he breathed.
She came closer without a word, stopping mere feet from him. If he had dared, he might have reached out and touched her, his to see if she was real and not a dream. She did not speak for a long time, only looking sadly at the carnage around them.
"Why did this happen?" he asked her, alarmed at his own bravery. She fixed serious eyes on him, and he could not guess if she felt surprised to see him, angry at the massacre, or just sadness.
"Mortals," she said, in a rich, resonating voice that echoed out onto the water, "are filled with greed, selfishness and hatred. This was inevitable."
He was surprised by her answer. She continued to speak before he said another word.
"I am Aristophane," she told him, "one of the many deities that watch over the earth. For over a millennium, I have watched this war...it has gone on for far too long. Today, the innocent have been slaughtered without reason or question." She gestured around her, to the destroyed town and the murky lake. He could see the raindrops splashing on the water, but he could no longer feel them. "Now, it is time to end it."
"Why am I the only one awake?" he asked her slowly.
"This does not concern them. You are the only one that matters."
"I don't understand."
"You have proven yourself," she said to him, a faint hint of pride in her voice. "Not only as a hero of this war, but as a kidn, merciful, and strong leader. So it will be you that shall be chosen."
"Chosen...?" He wondered if this was all a dream, but something about the deity's eyes told him that nothing so strange could ever be in his dreams.
She smiled at him. "You have earned a life or peace, and you shall recieve it. But your descendants shall carry in their blood power enough to save the entire world...and they shall. They will forever be known as the chosen of Ametris. And you are the first, Haenir of Trieth."
"The chosen of Ametis..." he repeated dreamily, the title sounding like music.
"You have done well, my child," Aristophane said with a gentle smile. She took his face in her hands, long-fingered and soft, and kissed him on the forehead. He only watcher her, feeling as if his eyes were absorbing and reflecting the aura, perfumed of roses and the forest after rain, that surrounded her. In an overwhelming sense of proud, solemn triumph, he smiled too and bowed low. As he rose again, the light began to fade, and she was gone. The world darkened once more, and he almost thought he heard her soft voice call out to him:
"You are only the first, but you shall not be the last."
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