Deathless

Deathless Prologue: Resurrection

 Map of Arlenia: http://i.imgur.com/TI9402V.png

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And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.

― Revelation 9:6

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Prologue: Resurrection

There is the sound of screams. There is the silent cry of the dead and the dying across the plain. There is the sight of blood running freely, mixing in with the grass and mud and soil. Such was the reality of the Arlenian Civil War in those days, brother pitted against brother in a war that had no victor. Only survivors. An empire drowned in death.

Captain Aldgar, of the Seventh Legion raised his sword and shook it ferociously, trying to keep up the morale of his men. The two sides had been locked in a fearsome and deadly combat for over three hours, with heavy casualties on both sides. However, neither side showed any intention of surrender. Both sides were bent on victory, even if it meant they'd have to fight to the last man.

He spurred his troops onward. Their host had been split up by the sudden ambush, with Aldgar's squad assailed in the north, cut off from the rest of the host. He now led his men through a  narrow pass, heading for the main host.

They were nearly there. Aldgar brandished his sword, a standard officer's blade, a one-handed weapon designed to penetrate an enemy's defenses quickly and quietly.

But suddenly, he heard a surprised yelp of pain behind him. And then a loud thump, like metal crashing against soil. Thrice more the sound of steel clattering against the grassy ground reached Aldgar's ears.

"What the hell was that?" Aldgar shouted, swiftly turning. He was greeted by an appaling sight. Four of his men, sprawled on the ground, arrows cleanly protruding from their necks.

"Archers!" Aldgar yelled, in a strangled voice. "Get down!"

He got down on his hands and knees and crawled to the nearest shelter: a rock sticking out of the cliff to his left. Behind him came two other soldiers, their weapons lying forgotten on the ground behind them as they scrambled to safety.Behind him, Aldgar heard more strangled yells and screams of pain as his comrades fell to the relentless shower of arrows from above them. But he paid them no heed. In those moments, the only thing Aldgar cared about was him and him alone.

Aldgar pushed his back into the warm soil of the overhang, breathing heavily. Beside him was Thogard, one of his subordinates. The other man, Vronil, lay unmoving five feet away from sanctuary.

As Aldgar scanned the battlefield, something caught his eye. He directed his eyes to Vronil. He thought he'd seen something, in the man's cold, dead eyes as they stared, unseeing, into space. He shook his head. It was nothing.

Then Vronil blinked, and light returned to his eyes.

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"Almost got him," Anwyn muttered, her tiny brown eyes narrowing as she closed in on her prey.

She'd been stalking this deer for hours now, and she had begun to grow weary, but the thought that the meat from such a large animal would feed her family for a week kept her going. Her arm began to grow sore, from carrying her bow, and her knuckles were sore from clenching them so much.

She was a stone's throw away from the deer, next to a gushing river, which masked her footsteps. She narrowed her vision as she crept nearer and nearer. Then her foot slipped.

Anwyn screamed as her bow tumbled from her grasp, and she fell unhindered into the river, her thin body giving way to the raging currents. She couldn't do anything but uselessly flail her arms and legs as the sharp current took her farther and farther away.

Anwyn's vision blurred as the river brought her deeper and deeper underneath the shore. All thought vanished from her mind, panicking from lack of oxygen. And then suddenly, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her skull. A sharp rock near the river's bottom had sliced open the back of her head.

In the instant before she lost consciousness, Anwyn knew that the wound was fatal. She was going to die. And so Anwyn closed her eyes for the last time.

Or so she thought. After an indeterminate amount of time, Anwyn opened her eyes to find herself not in whatever afterlife awaits us, but on the shore of the river, in a pool of her own blood, still flowing from the deep gash in her skull

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Charon was ready to die. At the ripe old age of seventy-eight, how could he not be? He'd led a good life as a farmer, tending his crops, right up until six months ago when sickness took him.

The village's healers could do nothing for him. They'd examined him for over a month to no avail. At the end, they'd simply decided that it was his time, and they could do nothing to stop it. The gods were calling him.

So, as Charon lay in his own bed, surrounded by his children and grandchildren, he felt a strange sort of peace come upon him. He couldn't explain it. It was as if all the worries he'd had throughout his life had suddenly disappeared. Charon had accepted his death, finally, after all his years of toil and sweat and tears he'd spent trying to avoid it.

Charon then closed his eyes, and waited for death. But it never came.