Stories of the short variety

THE WARRIOR

Short story written at like 5am. Yay half-asleep writing!

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I watch the Warrior wake.

The cyan glow of a Warden's eyes peeks out from under her lids as they flutter open. I know that they're focusing, locking on to the details around her, though I cannot see it through the glow that conceals her gaze.

The Warrior pushes herself up off the silken sheets of lilac slowly, cradling her head with one hand. She has been sleeping for eons, her body held captive by the Dream and its slumber - but no longer. Today, she awakens. Today is the day her mind reclaims all it lost in those eons of sleep.

She rises to her feet, unsteady at first but gaining confidence with every second she is balanced. Her body has not forgotten itself, as I have not forgotten her body. Even the idea of forgetting is absurd to me. It is all I have, after all.

There is a pause as she looks around, studying the small chamber she finds herself enclosed in.

It is a small, square room with earthen walls, furnished with only a bed and a wooden chest that sits in the corner. A hand-woven rug lies on the floor, smoothed to perfection. It hasn't been stepped upon in centuries. The only other piece of decoration to adorn the room is a small flower, blooming from a vine on the ceiling.  

It's the box that takes her interest. You can see it in her movements, the tensing of her muscles that she recognises it. She knows what's in that chest.  

The Warrior rushes forward, fingers lifting the lid so quickly that it bounces off the wall. Annoyed, she pushes it back, holding it in place with her left hand while her right dips into the box.

She holds her breath, closing her eyes in silent prayer and withdraws her hand from the chest.

As I knew they would be, her fingers are curled around the hilt of a silver sword.

The Warrior opens her eyes once more, their cyan glow mirrored on the metal. She hesitates a moment, letting the sight of the weapon sink in. Her shoulders sag in relief, as if she had expected it almost not to be there, but it lasts barely a moment before she is moving again.

She stands, letting the lid of the chest slam shut so her hand might caress the sharpened edge of the blade. She brings it level with her sight, noting how her eyes have not changed while she slept in their reflection on the hilt.

Her brow creases, a shadow of memory causing doubt against that observation. She looks back. Lilac, her sheets were lilac. Why then, were not her eyes?

The question dissipates quickly, fading as another need arises.

I know what it is, too. Her left arm feels bare. She needs her shield.

The Warrior locates it quickly, lying against the foot of her bed. She slips her arms through the straps and grabs the handle, a sense of peace washing through her with the familiar weight. She sighs, but it is one of content. Her face lights with a smile.

Her head turns, searching the room for a target. She is keen to find out if indeed, time has ravaged her legendary skills.

In truth, I am as eager as she to find out. It is vital to the plan.

With a few experimental twirls of the sword, it is quickly apparent that time has not been able to touch her. The blade flicks with deadly speed, slicing through the wooden bedpost with ease. But it is not enough, and the sense of discomfort in her is growing. She knows that something is wrong.

The Warrior heads to the door. She attempts to push it open, but it's stuck, as I knew it would be. It is a problem she overcomes on her own without my interference, working her blade into the earthen walls around the impenetrable door.