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Nothing really hit me for this prompt other than “fantasy.” Not sure why, but it’s where I went.

Oath

King Olen’s hand felt alive though he was dead. Still warm. Soft with small scars where parchment had cut him over the years. Ringless, because the King despised jewelry.

Lyran almost kissed the hand out of habit. His mouth watered, and nausea stirred in his guts. He tossed the hand onto the bedsheet.

A knock at the door.

“Gods, they’re quick.”

Lyran stood, then sat, then knelt. He had to look convincing. Master Aur opened the door. Kneeling it would be.

“Does our King still draw breath?”

Lyran feigned a sob and cleared his throat. “I fear he does not, Master Aur.”

Master Aur’s robes grated on the flagstones as he scuffled to the bedside. He picked up the King’s discarded hand and pressed it to his forehead. “My King, my Lord, my Savior. Take your rest. Take your leave. The Gray Fens await you, reeds parted, waters tepid. These old bones will join you soon, and I relish the moment I can serve at your court again.”

Lyran’s knees ached on the cold stone floor. “And I, Father.”

“My Prince.” Master Aur ran his tongue over his teeth behind closed lips. “Ah, forgive me. My Lord. For there can be only one, and only one we have in this chamber.” He looked like something was caught in his throat.

“As the gods will,” Lyran said.

“As the gods will.”

Master Aur stood. “Your court . . . awaits.” He lifted the royal transference gown for Lyran.

Lyran stepped into it. It fell stiff on his shoulders. Sleeves cinched around his wrists.

Master Aur stepped in front of him. “One. More. Thing.” And he pulled a long silken scarf from his sleeve like a market trickster. “May I?”

How many steps remained in this silly ritual? Lyran obliged. He smelled the old man’s funk as the scarf became a blindfold.

“Blood is blind,” Master Aur said.

“Blood is blind,” Lyran repeated.

“Blood is true.”

Blood is true.”

Master Aur turned Lyran by the shoulders. “Blood does bind.”

“Blood does bind.”

Lyran waited for something else to repeat but nothing came.

Master Aur guided Lyran out of the King’s chamber. Torches crackled. A gust of wind soughed through the hall. Though he couldn’t see it, the path before him was long. He had walked this hall daily for a fortnight, sitting beside his father, listening to his wishes. Listening to what Lyran should do and how he should do it. An instruction manual for an unworthy son.

Lyran bit the inside of his cheek but did not draw blood.

Lyran let himself be led. By the sound of it, there was only Master Aur trailing behind. The three customary house guards weren’t present.

“Master Aur?” Lyran asked.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Where is my retinue?”

“Pardon, my Lord?”

“‘He shall be ushered to the ever throne by armor and sword of thrice.’”

“My Lord?”

Lyran bit down and drew blood this time. “The infernal rules of ascension I was forced to memorize as a child. Drawn up by men even older than you. Why do I even have to remind you of such—”

Lyran’s voice caught in his throat. Then the pain bloomed. Blood flowed. He stuttered, eyes seeing nothing but muted light through fine threads.

“Those laws changed long ago, my Lord,” Master Aur said into his ear. He twisted the blade. “If you’d have attended the tribunals with your father, as you should have, you would know this. Gods, just once within the last ten years, and you would have known this.”

Lyran went to reach for his blindfold but couldn’t move his arms.

“And if you would have attended my lessons,” Master Aur said. “The ones your father had as a boy, you would have known the curse you put upon yourself by uttering those words. To exchange your soul for mine. Your blood for mine.”

Lyran felt suction on his neck. Wet lips slurped. His bones ached. His skin withered. Then even the torchlight was snuffed. He felt stone on his back.

Then, in his ear, “I vowed to your father I would see his vision through beyond the grave. I have taken the burden you never wanted. So take comfort in that you will never have to shoulder it.”

Lyran’s blindfold was stripped away. Through his atrophied eyes screened with fog, he saw a young man smile, then nothing at all.

I decided on a stylistic approach for this one. Showing internal anger without it manifesting externally between two people. I also played with pacing in the line-by-line work to hopefully increase tension.

Thanks for reading.

Fight

He sat in his idling ‘05 Civic, in the driveway of his house, her car in his spot. He got out of the car and stood there with a pen in his fist beside her plump car tires. A sudden breeze flung his tie up to his face, and he caught the scent of laundry detergent. Summer breeze, specifically, and the coincidence made him smile. He looked up to the sky, and it was clear and beautiful.

He put his pen in his pocket.

About to take the path that led to the front door, he noticed chipped paint on the garage door. Dents, too. He touched it. Some of it was wet. Off-color. A sloppy patch job. The true color of the garage door dotted her bumper, which was still in his spot.

She sat in the plush recliner in her living room, the TV screen black. Two candles sat beside her on end tables she’d inherited from her great grandmother. A sudden breeze pushed through the slightly open window facing the front yard and put out the candle.

She went to relight it, already missing the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Gouges in the wood screeched across her vision. She went to touch them, praying they were an illusion. They were not. Her eyes welled. She investigated the shapes and saw the impression of a Honda logo above sawtooth marks of what was undoubtedly a key.

He rotated his stiff neck and fought the urge to grab his pen again and tripped, nearly falling down if not for the birdbath in the garden beside the walkway. A garden hose lay strewn in front of him. He followed its intestine length to the end. Water dribbled out into her flowerbed.

He put the hose away, as it should have been, encircled around the mount on the wall just for that purpose. He adjusted his tie and headed for the door.

She moved the candle over the scratches, the wounds, hoping she would forget. She could never forget. A drink of tea, she thought, would calm her down. Ease her soul.

Her ritual was simple: A flute glass with two ice cubes, a lemon slice without the rind, and a dash of milk. She found all these things and was ready to add the milk, the final ingredient, when something felt off. The weight, the way it sloshed in the carton. She poured anyway, and curds dropped into the tea. Rotten pustules infested her drink with cloudy filth.

Keys worked in the front door, and she dropped the glass to shatter on the floor.

He pushed and twisted, but the key wouldn’t work. He slowed his pace, imagining the inner workings of the lock. It clicked.

She wept over broken glass, which cut her finger. Blood mixed with tea and curds. She heard the door open, smelled his cologne pump into the house. She grabbed the longest piece of glass.

He kicked his shoes off in the middle of the entryway and dropped his briefcase. The tile was spattered in pink. He smelled nail polish. Still wet.

She crept into the living room.

He turned on the TV. It blared news commentary.

She rounded the dining table. It was set for three.

He saw her.

She saw him.

They approached each other.

He was sweating.

She was sweating.

He hated her face.

She hated his.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she said.

A little late with this one, but here it is.

Thanks for reading.

Legend

Jott loved the rain until tonight.

A flood of nails it felt like. On his back, in a hole, forced to gaze up at the sky, if he opened his mouth he would drown. He was sure of it.

A shovelful of mud landed on his legs. Father’s face glistened in the moonlight above his kelp beard. “You all right, son?”

Jott’s lips twitched to answer. He nodded instead.

“Right, then,” Father said. He deposited another heap of mud on Jott. He couldn’t move his legs anymore. The weight. The cold. It was so cold. He wished he would grow numb like when Ma would take him to swim in the Gray Sea.

“Where’s Ma?” Jott asked. He choked a little but didn’t drown.

“She’ll be along shortly,” Father said. “Much to prepare. Much to prepare.” The last of his words rang hollow.

Jott squirmed in the mud. What he thought were worms tickling his fingers ended up being roots. He broke them off, one by one.

“Will it hurt? Jott asked.

Father stabbed the shovel in the ground and leaned on it, his back to Jott. His beard moved as if he were in conversation. Finally, he turned. “Mother’s arrived,” he said.

Mother stepped around Father in a heavy cloak, only the wet curls of her hair hanging from her hood identifying her. She shuffled to the hole where Jott lay.

Jott sat up, kicking away the mud, holding out his arms. Like a child. He was a child.

“Oh, child,” Mother said. “You must lie back down. It’s nearly time.”

More than rain fell from her face. More than cold shivered her bones.

Father pushed her aside with a fresh shovelful. Larger than the last one. This time, Jott felt things squirm. Not roots at all.

Mother opened her cloak to reveal an armful of items. A sword she placed first, then a shield. Jott had never seen such treasures. She put his hand around the sword’s hilt and patted it before letting go. The shield came next, upon his breast. Her touch lingered. Father pulled it away.

“You have it all wrong,” Father said. “He was mirrored. Left of sword, right of shield. To fool them all. So it is writ.”

Mother went to lift Jott’s head, which he thought she might kiss but placed a heavy tome behind him as a pillow. “He sleeps upon the wisdom to sunder the world. Divide light from dark.”

Mud up to his chest, Jott was done with this game. “Let me out!”

“A jot on the world no more, my son,” Mother said. “You are the steel. You are the forge. You shall usher future generations to salvation.”

“Please!” Jott screamed.

Mother and Father were ghouls. They weren’t his parents. They looked at him as if he wasn’t there at all. He kicked and squirmed, but the weight was too much. Only his head could move.

“I am cold,” Jott said. “Please, let me out. I’m scared. I don’t understand—”

“It is not for you to understand,” Father said. “It is for them to learn. One thousand years hence, perhaps more, long after we are but dust taken to the wind. But you . . .”

Jott looked to his parents, words lost to him, the rain falling harder, the mud getting heavier.

“I’m not any of those things,” Jott said between sobs. “I’m not—”

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Mother said. “It matters what they believe.”

“You will burn the darkness,” Father said.

“You will light the way,” Mother said as she emptied a bucket over Jott.

Once Jott spit most of it out and the rain cleared his eyes, he smelled it.

Father lit a torch. It hissed in the rain. “You will light the way,” he echoed.

Mother and father joined hands on the torch, then together, they tossed it on Jott.

Lightning flashed as Jott burned.

As if I needed an excuse to write something Lovecraftian.

Thanks for reading

Stars

Henry was third in line to get his throat cut.

The stone at his feet led to a cliffside that led to the sea. The sky pitch, torchlight from one of the two robed men at the cliff’s edge was the only means he could see.

What he did see was Monte and Christopher from town. Christopher first, between the two robed men, blubbering. His head shook at a request from one of the robed men, but the crash of a wave below masked the words so Henry couldn’t hear.

A swift movement from the robed man on the left and Christopher was gone.

Henry was second in line to get his throat cut.

Monte stood firm as if he were between two men who weren’t about to kill him. Taller he was, even. He stared hard into their hoods. The left one first, the right one second. His hair looked afire in the torchlight, hotter than the normal strawberry he donned. It was fitting.

The same robed man who had spoken to Christopher spoke to Monte. A wave crashed again, but now closer, now able to also see the movement of lips within the hood, Henry could make out what he said.

“What do you see?” was the request.

“There is nothing,” Christopher said. “Blackness. Emptiness. A void I am incapable of seeing because it does not exist. But I will exist after, eternally, in the Light, and I will watch you burn. I will watch you—”

A flash of steel and a dagger was drawn across Monte’s neck. Fleck’s of his lifeblood spattered Henry’s hand. He went to wipe it, then stopped.

The robed men didn’t have to push Monte over the edge. He looked at them both, neck spilling with blood, his hair still afire, as were his eyes, before walking to the edge, hands pressed into what Henry could only imagine was prayer. And then he jumped, arms spread. Like the wings of an angel.

Henry was first in line to get his throat cut.

He stepped forward. Monte’s blood had dried on his hand. It itched.

Wind howled up the cliffside, knocking him back a few steps. The robed men caught him. Steadied him.

Henry waited for the question; if they would ask it at all. No one had had the answer. Why would he? He saw what Monte saw. Nothingness. His eyes might as well be closed in a dark room. If not for the torchlight in his peripheral vision, nothingness, emptiness, would be truth.

He smiled, knowing Monte would have put a capital T on that word. Christopher, too. Hell, all of them, the devoted lambs they were.

He swallowed, knowing he wasn’t worthy of the question. He was only worthy of an open throat and an ocean grave. They would all agree.

His suspicion was correct. Something colder than the wind touched his neck, held his Adam’s Apple at bay, because he wouldn’t need to swallow again.

Then, he saw it. A pinhole in the black. It multiplied into a many-armed spiral. It was ancient, eternal. Older than the Light Monte had threatened upon these men. Older than the darkness that surrounded it. Henry knew this. Somehow.

“He sees,” one robed man said.

“He sees,” the other said.

Henry did. With his mind, his soul. They knew this, so the robed man lifted the blade from his throat and brought it to Henry’s cheek, resting the flat of it on the ridge of his eye socket before plunging it deep. Henry did not resist, because he did not need eyes to see.