Luther
My jaw aches, my mouth is full of dirt and blood. My left eye is swollen shut, the ground is unforgiving underneath my face. Pebbles and grit dig into my cheek. A weak groan escapes from me, earning me a swift kick to the rib cage. The impact knocks the wind right out of my scrawny body.
"Come on, Luther, fight back," Marcus commanded. How he could expect me to fight back is beyond me. Still, I pull my scrawny arms towards me, clenching my sword along the way. I roll from my side to my stomach. I push myself up, standing on wobbly legs. Looking down at my tattered tunic I see it is bloodied and ruined.
I groan once more.
My mother will be upset with me again. Dad will probably bring out the belt.
The clashing of the other soldiers' weapons is the only answer Marcus received.
Turning my head up, against the groaning protest my neck. Wisps of my shaggy light brown hair fell out of my eyes. I stared down at Marcus. I didn't want to risk taking my focus off him long enough to get the hair out of my eyes, but the hair was also a distraction. Lose, lose situation.
Marcus was relaxed, unaffected, and not a scratch on him, his hands hung casually at his side. He seemed unfazed that he was beating a child. After all, he was the Captain of the Order, Head trainer, his job was to prepare the chosen one.
Unfortunately, I'm the chosen one.
I'm supposed to be the one to fight for Utopia in the ultimate battle of good and evil.
Me.
The runt of the litter standing, at least a foot shorter than any other kid in the village. When we started my training, I could barely hold a sword. Even my own parents were sure the Gods got it wrong.
My size could be useful now locating a small weakness in Marcus' stance.
Increasing my grip, I opt for the frontal attack. Maybe luck will be on my side and I'll land a hit. It would be nice, he has been kicking my ass every day for 17 months.
Charging forward, head down, sword out ahead of me. My sandals are kicking up dust causing me to blink. Not before I saw the surprise settling on Marcus' face. The edge of my sword grazed across something, then it was just air. When I open my eyes, Marcus is not at the end of my sword.
My jaw goes slack. I lower my arm and sword pointing the tip towards the ground. I scan the arena, my sandals dig down into the dirt trying to stop myself. The abrupt stop sent me stumbling, I just barely caught myself before I tumbled over.
He wasn't in front of me. I spun around, feeling the exhaustion settling in. A growing feeling of sand filled my legs, making me sluggish and sloppy.
A knee crashed into my side, colliding with my already bruising ribs. Wheezing, I fold into myself and crumbled to the ground. Black spots filled my vision, my head spun as all my blood rushed towards my injuries. Disorientating wave after wave washed over me. Absolute exhaustion kicked in and I remained on the ground.
The sudden connection of hard leather and my face pushed me past the conscious threshold. Darkness and nothingness took over my surroundings as I let go.
My sword clatters to the ground, there's no doubt it's damaged. My mind conjures up images of the worst day of my life as it has every time I'm unconscious.
My Trial.
The single event that ruined my and countless others' lives. 3 months into my ninth year the children were gathered in the temple.
All of us scared children gathered in front of the High Priestess. How lovely and terrifying she looks. Wrapped in wispy layers of sheer lace, silk, and odd bundles of beads and jewels. Her ember-like orange hair has been embroidered with beads, flowers, and twists into her headdress.
Burning candles and lace pillows littered the floor. Young maids dressed similar to the Priestess stood by waiting. On the altar are black stone bowls one is smoking. Fear grips all our young hearts as we all know we are about to undergo the Trial.
"Welcome young ones," she bellows and bows to us. When she stands she nods to the servants of the temple that line the walls. They step forward and start seizing children, dragging them off to somewhere unseen to me. Others join me in my fear as soft sniffles and muffled sobs filter through the room.
Pressure bears down on all our young shoulders. The pressure to perform our best in this revered rite of passage. Our parents and elders view this as the ushering of adulthood. Our entire future rests these coming days.
Starting on the fifth full moon and lasting until the dark moon. Demanding daily test that displays every strength and weakness. Many don't make it to the end.
The villagers happily pay the price. All for the next chosen one. Sitting in a dark room waiting for the next session to start, my mind begging for it all to be over. A loud grinding noise came from the door as the lock was undone.
A temple servant came into the room, I didn't even bother noticing how he looked. They must rotate them as I have never seen the same one twice. I was being roughly dragged down a hallway, back towards the temple's common room.
The village folk packed in to see which children survived the ordeal. The collective gasp when I emerged stings now that time has passed. But I recall that I too was surprised to find myself in front of a withering and mewling High Priestess.
One of the maids I had seen the first night was cradling the Priestess' head. Her puffy eyes were rolled back, the whites bloodshot.
"The. Chosen. One," the High Priestess croaks out, her pointer finger shook as it stretched out towards me. My heart sinks further with each word. I reject her words as soon as she finishes.
"No, you're wrong," I say and the elders in the room gasp.
I woke up with a start. Eye darting around, brain scrambling to figure out where I am. The familiarity of my room settles me. Wiggling my fingers and toes, no pings or pangs. Next, my legs and arms, tenderness, and sore muscles give me faint misgivings. Pushing myself to my elbows I find from the top of my skull to my thighs is absolutely battered. At least my tunic has been changed and my body cleaned of blood and dirt
My mother's doing I am sure.
Gingerly resting back down into my lumpy bedding, I stare at my chipping ceiling. Wondering how
Dad's heavy footsteps make their way through the house and let me know he's in the kitchen with mother.
It's been 94 years since the last chosen one. The elders in town still speak highly of him, some even claim to have seen Jac in person most indulge them in their tales. Brushed off as nonsense ramblings of old men, but now the others ask the old men questions. Comparing a young Jac to me or more accurately comparing wimpy, under-developed me to the all-powerful Jac.
Marcus instructed me to ignore the snickers and mocking from the others. That we would prove them wrong.
I let out a loud sigh. All the pressure in the world is pushing down on me, and it feels like its main focus is my chest. I struggled to breathe as my mind continued to race. Thoughts swirling and bouncing from topic to topic, each tangent leads me to the same conclusion.
I have to run away or Marcus is going to kill me. Not intentionally, of course, but in the process of making me become "the chosen one".
Motivation and determination soothe the crushing weight on my chest. A plan begins to take shape. I just need to buy time and heal.
