Death's Cradle

Freedom

This desert would never live down the blood that was shed in it, Gazelle's and the other's their blood was washed out but still stained the desert's past. F.E.A.R. would not unstain the desert either, and peace, peace is a fleeting thing that no one can hold for long. Not even those that survived such blood shed. No one can hold it forever and war would come back to the desert, for this desert is death's home, this desert is our home, this desert will never be pure or clean again, this desert is death's cradle, and we will never be free of it.

How do I know? I am Freedom, daughter of the fallen prophet and daughter of the survivng mourner. And with this I tell you the truth.

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Freedom's P.O.V.

I looked down at the dusty ground. My wrists hurt from the rope that held them behind my back. I heard cries come from the crowds. Salvation and Hope knelt next to me. Their wrists tied as well. I looked up and caught the eyes of someone I had lost long ago, the eyes of someone who had died when I was just a baby. I rolled my eyes. I did not need to be seeing my mother's ghost when I was about to be executed by F.E.A.R. Salvation nudged my side with his elbow.

"Hey, you got a plan of how to get out?" He asked. I looked at him and frowned.

"Of course, I'm just waiting for the right time to put my plan into action." I told him. In translation: I've got no fucking clue and I'm waiting for my ghost mother to go away so I can think about how not to get us killed.

Salvation nodded, he trusted me with his entire live. The kid was only twelve and I had already nearly gotten us killed about five times this week. We'd had a busy week. I looked into my ghost mother's pale blue eyes. She blinked and pointed towards the axe I was about to be killed with. It took me a split second to understand what she wanted. I wasn't sure if I should trust her though, people did refer to her as the Mad Prophet, which was reasonable since she had killed nearly every Wild One by fault.

As the F.E.A.R. member tasked with taking our lives stepped forward I made up my mind. Take a wild leap of faith and possibly get the last living Wild Ones killed. I jumped to my feet and rammed myself into the member. Hope followed my lead and kick flipped another member. How she did it with her hands tied behind her back? Don't ask me I've got no clue.

I jumped and slipped my hands under my raised feet. I grabbed the axe that was supposed to kill me and swung at my advancing enemy. He fell down with a bloodied cry of pain. I quickly cut the ropes around my wrists and went to free Salvation while Hope continued to take out the enemy. People in the crowd watched in horror. No one dared to cheer us on, that would spell out almost certain death for them.

Once I had cut Hope's restraints we took off. My hand still grasped the axe as we pushed our way through the crowd. A tall hooded figure began to run with us. I smiled.

"Grandpa, where's Dad?" I asked and the hooded figure took his hood down to reveal the aged face of Prophet Andy.
He smiled down at me.

"He and the rest are waiting for us in the safe hut." He said. Sand billowed behind us as we made our final escape.

When we finally made it to the safe hut we were caked in sand. I brushed sand from my eyes and tried to shake some from my hair. Rough sand was caught in uncomfortable places as Salvation collapsed from exhaustion. Destroyer, a beautifully rough designed woman in my opinion, quickly came forward with water for us. She was Salvation's mother and my adoptive one. I watched as she took care of the young boy.

The presence of my mother came to me and my frown deepened. Her icy blue eyes bore into me but I refused to meet them. My mother's ghost was a curse. I had inherited my father's ability to see the dead who stayed in the desert. After all I was a Mourner but since I was a Prophet as well I had seen her coming in a vision. That had sucked. I'd awoken in the night screaming for my grandfather wanting to know who the strange girl in my vision was. Icy blue eyes, a small mouth, powerfully lean figure, and war paint that was barely seen under all the blood that covered her. Her bloody hand had held the broken end of a F.E.A.R. staff. Prophet Andy's eyes had seemed to break a little.