Penprints Flash Fiction Dash // The Chosen One

It's that time of the year again - the Penprints Flash Fiction Dash!  The amazing Rosalie Valentine organizes this fun challenge.  She sends out the prompt, and participants have to use it to create a flash fiction piece (under 1000 words).

For the record, I really stink at flash fiction.  And I also forgot that I even had to write this.  So I wrote this while sitting on the floor of a hotel restaurant and decided not to edit because I'd already set myself up for failure as it is.

But enjoy it anyway.

My Prompt.

People tease me because I never wear armor.

I laugh off yet another wide-eyed squire. “I was too fast to get hit! Metal plates and chain mail only slow me down!”

People also think I’m mad.

Perhaps they’re right.

Martha always said we had to do our best to protect ourselves, but all the protection she wore didn’t stop the Red Queen from killing her. And I walked away alive.

“Sir Thomas!” The squire refuses to leave me be. “How come I have to wear my breastplate? They won’t let me spar without it. But you went into battle with just your shield the day we won the war. I want to be like you!”

I tugged crooked, scarred fingers through my hair—or what was left of it. Old age pulled away more of me as the years whirled on. “I’m the Chosen One, boy. The prophecy said I would live, and so I did.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “You could jump off a cliff and still live? Just because of some words on a scroll that said it?”

“Yes. No. Probably.” I flapped a hand in his direction. “I don’t pay much attention to the prophecy. It’s been fulfilled. Over and done. Not that it was very informative to begin with. Didn’t even cover half of what really had to happen for us to win the war.”

“Really? What happened?”

I should have kept my mouth shut. With a nod to the squire, I jabbed my hat on my head, gathered my scrolls, and marched off as best I could with my limp.

Thirty years I’d run, but now I could barely manage a lively trot. Yet another thing the Red Queen had taken from me.

“You can’t just mumble something and leave. I have to know!” The squire grabbed my elbow, and I twisted on my heel, staring right into his mismatched eyes. Strange eyes. Blue like the sky melding with brown, like when the horizon bent to touch freshly-plowed earth.

The scrolls tumbled from my grip.

“Confounded prophecies and their specifics!”

With a rushed apology, the squire scooped up the scrolls, but I only cared about one—the small little scrap, with loopy, drunken handwriting. I pushed the squire away for a moment, shifted my weight to my good leg, and scanned the lines again.

“Black-hearted blackguards! It’s the right one!” I lowered the scroll and stared at the squire again. “Who are your parents?”

He shrugged, adjusting his grip on the handful of scrolls. “They’re dead. Long dead.”

The corner of my mouth lifted in a grin. “Got any friends?”

“Yeah. A few.”

“Say goodbye to them now.” I closed the scroll. “Because you, my boy, are the next Chosen One. Read for yourself.”

He took the offered scrap, scanned the lines, and narrowed those foretold mismatched eyes. “This is really about me?”

“Of course. The eyes. The lack of parents. Growing up as a squire in the household of the King. Perfect for leading Antrelle to her next victory.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” I took a step forward and stopped. Botheration. If he’s the Chosen One, that makes me the teacher. The one who guides him to his path of greatness. The one who dies. “Do you have a sweetheart?”

“What’s that got to do with this?” The squire’s ears burned red. “That’s none of your business!”

I tugged the chain around my neck, the engagement ring barely weighing down the twisted metal that kept it forever close. “Tell her you love her. Sooner. Don’t wait. Or you may never have the chance.”

“Does that...what does the prophecy say? Am I going to die?” He flung his hands in the air, sending scrolls flying across the hall. “Sir Thomas, what do you mean?”

“You’re the Chosen One, boy. You’re not going to die. Read the prophecy.”

~~*~~

“Why aren’t you wearing armor?”

I opened my mouth, but the usual answer died on my lips.

Corran, the Chosen One, stared down at me from atop his battle stallion. His mismatched eyes took in my tunic, jerkin, battered shield. “Do you have a death wish, Sir Thomas?”

A flash of metal on his left hand caught my attention, but he blushed and slipped his fingers into his stallion’s mane.

“So you asked her? Good.” I ran my fingers along Martha’s chain. The blood had long been cleaned off of it, but sometimes I thought I could still smell her perfume.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Corran tilted his head towards the battlefield. “This isn’t your story anymore. It’s my prophecy.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m done running, Corran. It’s time for me to be a human again, and meet my end like everyone else.”

If it’s my time, then it’s my time. After all, I was The Chosen One. And I know my story.

Hope you liked it!  Don't forget to skip over to Rosalie's blog in a few days and check out her wrap-up post.  Loads and loads of Flash Fiction to read!!