The Lost Kingdom

Part 1

He could feel himself bleeding out, his arm was bent at an unnatural angle and the deep, throbbing wound in his side was leaking blood onto the dirty, cold floor he was sprawled on. He clenched his eyes shut, and conjured the image of his wife, her beautiful smile lighting up her face as she held his youngest son in her arms, his face set into his seemingly permanent expression of mischief. He could see them all as if they were standing right in front of him; his whole family, his world, everything he had ever fought for, and he would never see them again. He could almost smell the blossoms of the apple trees of his home, hear the excited giggling of his children and feel the grass brushing the hand not clutched in his wife's. If he had believed in the afterlife, that moment would be the only one he would want to relive, over and over. And though his heart was strong, second only to his pure determination which had never wavered no matter what he had faced, he knew enough to be sure that his wounds were fatal, and the quantity of blood which was pooling on the ground next to him, slowly spreading over the dirt as it gushed out, meant that these breaths and thoughts were his last. And still, even now, with his life draining out of him, his choices having been ripped away from him a long time ago, still he couldn't accept that this was his what fate, or the Gods who had abandoned him long ago, had had in store for him. He found it impossible to fathom that a death by the hands of the people and creatures he had fought, and finally been defeated by, was the end he deserved. He was a nobody like everybody else. Except those responsible for his useless, broken body which was flooding with cold which had started at his bare feet, but now seemed to consume him whole. He could still hear the roaring behind him in the giant stone building which was built solely for people like him to go in and never come out again. Blood thirsty spectators and one man who undeservedly had control over every heart that beat in this starved land. He would be in there now, sat in his royal box, encouraging more cheers and grinning like a fool, not realising that the use of the word victor, champion or king in this case was so warped that no one knew what it really meant any more.

He heaved a deep sigh, keeping his head down, barely noticing the people strolling past him, not paying any attention to yet another dying man lying on the ground. He had just closed his eyes when he felt the air shift and his curls ruffle, tickling his bruised forehead. It was an effort to open his eyes, but when he did he was surprised to see a figure standing in front of him. A black, warm cloak hid the person's shape and face, yet they were close enough for him to see their breath clouding as they exhaled. As he took a deep breath he was assaulted by a sweet smell of roses and something else...something like home. He blinked up at the figure.

'Have you come to take me, Death?' Was all he could get out. The figure crouched, graceful and soft. The scent got stronger and he breathed in deeply.

'Don't be afraid.' A voice whispered, a woman...the figure was a woman, her voice soothing his ears which were so used to hearing cries and wails. A dainty hand was revealed as she moved to place it on his chest, yet still he could not see her eyes, nor her face. The second that hand touched him, a reassuring, healing warmth started to spread from his fingers to his toes, until he forgot about everything and focused only on that melodic voice which whispered;

'Listen very carefully.'

1

Bloodshot blue eyes watched as an innocent snowflake fluttered from the sky, making its ways gracefully to land on the heap of freshly cut firewood. Arria sighed in resignation; she wasn't ready, she was never ready. There was always too much to do before this moment, this moment that she dreaded when winter would unravel its wings, plunging the world into a freezing shadow of snow, unbearable temperatures and darkness which seemed to feed nightmares. This land seemed to be forever pursued by winter, the sun was brief in its encounters, never really warming the icy air, nor penetrating the thick canopy of clouds which constantly hovered overhead. Winter however, with or without the sun was almost unbearable.