The Chosen One?

1 - Eve

Acrid smoke stung Eve's eyes as she stirred the stew. It smelled good. The barley she had added today was softening nicely and the rest of the household would be home soon demanding to be fed. She was lucky really. How many women could count their close family equal to the fingers on their hands? Her husband, Barr, strong as an ox; a woodsman with hands like spades, tough as newly split oak and yet still soft and gentle when they needed to be. Her three sons and three daughters with sparkling eyes, and unblemished skin. That was more good fortune; not for them the ravages of disease that left some children scarred for life if they lived at all. Nor had any of them been hurt in battles, though there had been plenty of those.

They were not really children anymore; the youngest, Jenna, was already turning the heads of the handsome young warriors of the town. The eldest was handfasted and had his own house now. He was captain of the town guard and would certainly see to it that whoever his youngest sister chose they knew to take good care of her. Her other two sons worked with their father but both were preparing to take wives soon, and of the remaining daughters one had been handfasted last spring, the other would be next. Even Eve's parents were still alive. Her mother was a respected midwife and had smacked the bottoms of practically every person alive in the town under the age of thirty-five. Her father an elder on the council of thirty; a trusted adviser to the arch-mage and the high-reeve.

Eve stood up from stirring the pot and winced ever so slightly. She could not pretend that she was in the prime of youth. She had seen well over forty summers. She'd been to more handfastings and children's naming ceremonies than she could recount, and she had also seen the town destroyed and rebuilt more times than was reasonable. Dragonspoil wasn't a romantic name conjured up from someone's vivid imagination. The town was the largest settlement in a land surrounded by steep ice-topped mountains on every side. Dragons carried off sheep and cattle on an almost weekly basis. Burning the forest, or some part of the town, was an almost annual event. Not that dragons were the only problem. Earthquakes had struck more than once in her almost half-century of life, the worst of those consumed the great town meeting hall in a chasm that seemed to reach to the dark underworld, the stench of sulphur burned into her memory. There were battles as well, on those occasions when the dwarfs or elves needed to be put in their place, or when there was a struggle for power among the rulers of the human population. And central to all this was a prophecy. 

Girt by peaks of ice and stone,
An ashen child sets out alone,
Their quest begins at end of year,
No father's aid, no mother's care,
None unworthy shall prevail,
The weak at heart are sure to fail,
One child of Earth to make a stand,
To rid the evil from our land.

The year ended with the winter solstice. There would be feasting that night and the chosen one would set off on their quest. It had been thus for generations since the prophesy was first uttered. The names of the children were carved on a huge monolith. Their fate, where known, was carved next to it. From the first, Streffan – found frozen and starved in foothills, to the most recent, Gallina – charred remains found by shepherd, they were remembered and revered by everyone in the village. Despite the grisly ends met by most, and the many who were never seen or heard from again, there was never any shortage of volunteers. For one thing, there was always a ready supply of orphans, lacking their father's aid or mother's care. No shortage either of ash-blonde hair in this land where at least half the population was blonde and blue eyed. In most years there was a contest to see which child of two or three would be chosen. They were tested for their courage, their strength, and their prowess with a variety of weapons. And then they were sent to their inevitable death.

Eve had put herself forward once, many years ago. She was just ten years old and had been talking to her friends about the prophesy.

"Why does it have to be an orphan?"

"Because, it says so," said Varron.

"It just says, 'No father's aid, no mother's care.' It could just mean the child has to do it on their own."

"Well, don't ask me, ask the arch-mage! Besides, you're a brunette, not ash-blonde."

"I will be the chosen one this year, anyway." This was Selima, blonde, blue eyed, fierce as a winter wolf, and recently orphaned. Her mother had died when she was born. Earlier in the autumn, her father had crawled back to the town with an elven arrow in his leg only to die at the gates. Selima had no room in her heart to feel sadness. It was filled to the brim with rage. If the elders had chosen her she would have been as likely to head straight for the nearest elven village and wreak revenge as she was to head into the mountains in search of dragons.

Evedid try to put herself forward that year, but she was dismissed out of hand bythe arch-mage and the council of thirty. Her father had not joined that illustriousgroup at that time. She was laughed at, the brunette girl, with both parents inthe best of health, who thought she should be the chosen one was a topic ofmild amusement. Varron had been chosen over Selima. His body was found floatingface down in the great lake. It was bloated and showed signs of being nibbledat by fish. Selima had indeed decided to attack an elven village and died as aresult. There was a protracted series of retaliatory raids between humans andelves that lasted for many years as a result.