The Key Of Destiny

Chapter 1: The Gate and The Guardian

Chapter 1: The Gate and The Guardian

     He could not possibly continue. The searing pain through his exhausted leg was too much to bear. The blood exposed from the wound, the flesh redder than the sun as every step he took caused more and more blood to drip down his leg. In the corner of his eye, he saw the light dwindle out and his heart sank further. Hope was naught but a dream for him. He was a relatively tall man and his face was dark skinned, dirty and unshaven. His clothes were tattered and ripped, flapping in the wind. He was wearing a poorly sewn brown t-shirt and a honey coloured cloak. His trousers were in the same state except for giant rip revealing pink bloody flesh exposed.

     He looked into the sky, with some sort of plea for revolution. And was replied with mocking, ice cold snow that fell onto his head, giving him comfort and hope for that momentary point in time. The trees around him stared evilly, as if they want him to fall, to die. He limped his way towards a tree and sat, taking his raggedy cloak off. He had to stop the bleeding. He ripped his cloak, as the sound of tearing echoed through the woods. He began to bandage his wound, while putting a piece of cloth his teeth to prevent him from screaming. He clenched a handful of snow and patted it over his leg, looking up to the sky and moaning in pain like a wounded wolf. He got pieces of his destroyed cloak and tied it around his bloody leg, stopping the blood form continually spurting out of his leg and he watched as his cloak was slowly attacked by blood, turning it red.

     He sheathed his sword, a magnificent piece of metal that was in almost every way was opposite to the wielder. It was majestically beautiful, golden and shined bright as it reflected the sun’s rays in a prideful manner. He turned it upside down and stabbed into ground and grasped tightly onto the handles, pulling himself slowly upwards.

     The leg was hard to walk on, he still had a limp but he was stable. His head was full of questions, reconsidering his footsteps. Why was she so familiar? Why did he feel so sad when he met her? Will he survive? That woman, warned him to not enter but that was the sole reason of coming to this dreaded place. Then why did he feel like he was walking into a trap? Why did he feel that he wasn’t the one controlling his footsteps and that this was all planned out for him? Before he could even ponder what it meant, his leg gave out and he went face first into the snow.

     He thought to himself, “Maybe I should lie here. I’m not in a rush to die.” He managed to push himself so he was lying down on his back, watching the black sky and the raindrops falling. As they rushed to the ground they froze, slowly, crackling into snow and waved with the wind as the gracefully fell to the ground. It was time. He didn’t want it to come but it was time to stand, to fight. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders and he did not believe it was his destiny to die. And even if it was, at least he tried. He had gotten further than anyone before, so it was worth a try.

     So he rose, snow falling off his back and drew his sword. He took one step and images of her rushed through his head. A tall woman, not much younger than he, with piercing blonde hair, tied in to pigtails stood in his mind. Her clothes were blurry but they were a strong indigo colour. “Who are you?” he screamed. There was a pain in his chest; it was a dagger of guilt. He felt responsible…for something. He was so confused. What happened to her? His eyes pierced red, bloodshot and pained. “Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t my fault,” he kept telling himself as he walked on.      

     He stumbled and limped but he was making progress. His sword acted like a cane as he trudged through the snow, limbs getting colder and colder. The general climate in the forest was dropping and he could feel it. As he looked onto the cruel looking horizon, he noticed something ahead that was really strange. There seemed to be a snowstorm ahead, but it was suspended before a couple trees. “Hmm…” he pondered. He twisted his sword into an upright position and leaped into the storm. In an instant he was shoved by the wind, in the most forceful of actions.

     He came crashing into a tree and the wind was vigorously howling, pushing him. He could see that the wind was in a circle, and the wind acted in an anti-clockwise motion and that it surrounded one point; the eye of the storm. He dug his leather, broken sandals into the snow and took a stance. He leaped forward and stabbed a tree in front of him. The intense cold and began to turn his face paler by the second, his lips turning as purple as a beetroot. The wind was ruthless but he stood his ground. The cold had now taken over his sword, giving the piece of steel a coat of ice. He grabbed the trunk with his arm and withdrew his sword out of the unsuspecting tree. “This magic, it has to be-”. He swung himself around the tree and his legs were upon its surface. He jumped off the tree into the eye of the storm.

     He was face flat in the snow. He was gripping his sword with the blood ridden pale hand as he saw a sheet of ice grappling around the sword. He stumbled to his feet, his vision was blurry. He could feel his heart rate, slowing, ticking the last couple of seconds of life that he had. He shook his head and composed himself. He lifted the now ice sword to look at his opponent. The Guardian was an extremely tall skinny man. He had a purple top hat and he was wearing long short, red chest armour that ended at his stomach. He was also wearing long skinny black trousers that were neatly folded at the end and long pointed black shoes. The Guardian had his back turned to the man and he had a sword in his hand but he was holding it defensively.

     “Hello…Guardian.” The Guardian recoiled at the sound of the man’s voice. He slowly turned around and the biggest, most malevolent grin appeared on his face. The man stared in disbelief, for him, time had stopped. “No.” he thought. Shock had gripped footing and he couldn’t fathom what was going on. Fear overtook his voice as he uttered, “How…? The Guardian just smiled.

He said, “A certain God of fate brought you here Mixes. And here, you shall die.”

“But...I...We…You fell by my hand!” Mixes yelled out. This was not possible. But when he tried to recall how he fell, he didn’t remember how. He was as a blur as the girl in indigo. He called only recall feelings, which he didn’t know if he could trust anymore. He gripped his sword. Mixes leaped forward and slashed at the Guardian, who swiftly blocked with perfect precision. The Guardian went under Mixes’s sword and pushed him back. He smiled and leapt forward. Mixes rolled backwards and raised his sword and slashed at the Guardian…      

The frozen majestic sword fell into the soft, comforting snow, blood-stained and broken in half.