Reveries: Concoctions Of A Teenage Boy Who Doesn't Know Jack Shit.

The Oracle

Weeks had passed since Arthurs encounter with the demon in the bar, he had passed through the desert, but had almost met his end, had it not been for a little boy that had carried him to an abandoned way station with a water pump and nursed him back to health. When the swordslinger was healthy enough to rise, he packed up his stuff, and shot the boy in the back of the head; reason told him that he was a trap.He had come now to swamps and exotic creatures, and mist and warmth, and sat in a clearing next to a deep swamp and got out his flint and steel to light a fire. He spoke the ancient nonsense words his father had taught him – “Spark a dark, where’s my sire? Will I lay me? Will I stay me? Bless this camp with fire”, and there was light.

While he slept, he dreamt, of Elizabeth, the girl from the manni folk due east, tied to a smouldering stake, screaming his name, and of Al’Ahmar above the flames, howling with ecstatic laughter, and of the boy he shot in the back of the head, strung up on the gallows with a spike through his head, like an alabaster saint.

He woke.

The swordslinger ate and drank, only because logic told him it must be done, then began a gruelling journey through the wetlands, slashing vines with his swords as he went. They bled. At high noon Arthur came to a clearing in the wet, marshy forest and found a wide altar, made of black obsidian. Something new and young in a dying world, like the boy in the way station. He suddenly felt a writhing in his chest and a feeling of dread. He sensed a demon, and braced the hand that held his sword.
The Oracle pressed over him, a body made of wind. He was ecstatic.

’Make your prophecy,’ he said. ‘Tell me what I need to know’

A sigh. A faint sound of weeping.

He was aroused. The Oracle had done her job. She sent him a vision of Elizabeth as he stirred.

‘Speak prophecy’, he said, ‘Speak truth’

Please don’t be so cold, its always so cold in here-

Hands slipping over his flesh, tempting him. It lit him on fire.

Have a touch of mercy swordslinger, please! I cry your favour, mercy! Would you have mercy on the boy Arthur? If given a second chance?

‘What boy?’ He lied.

Never mind; it’s not boys I need. O please. Jasmine, rose, honeysuckle

‘After’, ‘If you tell me what I need to know’

Now. Please, now.

He let his mind attack her, the antithesis of emotion. The body that hung over him seemed to freeze and howl. For a moment, there was no sound but the swordslingers own breath. Again, there was the sound of sobbing. He would have to be quick else she would leave him.

‘Prophecy’

‘Truth.’

Fine. Al ahmar flees to the mountains and the dwellers and is sheltered by madmen and lepers. His magic grows stronger every day, and soon you may fail to resist his sorcery, swordslinger. Just as your father failed.

The swordslinger had shared board with both types of men in the past. He found the madmen better company. One had given him a shiny Silva compass and bade him give it to the Man Jesus. If he saw Him, he would hand it over gladly, although he doubted he would.

Be wary Arthur, while you travel with the boy close to your heart, Al Ahmar travels with your soul in his pocket. Death will come, Eld, but not for you.

"Go to hell, demon."

Been there, now burn.