The Prophetess

Prologue: Chapter One.

 The King walked with an air of purpose up the steps of the mountain, his robes swishing behind him as he did. His strides were long, and his breaths were coming out in puffs as he scaled the mount.

The King had been climbing for hours, and was terribly exhausted. Nevertheless, his determination never wavered, and he dismissed the urge each time to stop, take a breath, and relax his sore muscles. The King had to get there before dawn, or his next chance would be in the next blue-moon, approximately thirteen full-moon cycles from now; all thirteen months.

So up the King went, the spirals the staircase made prompted him to stop as he became lightheaded, but he adamantly refused to do so. As he left early in the morning, and in such a hurry, he had no water to drink, and had only a light breakfast to keep him up. Nevertheless, he never once faltered in his steps. 

There was such little time left before the sun would arise, releasing it's bright rays to the world, and extinguishing the King's opportunity in the process.

The sky was dark, a litter of stars scattered across it as though an afterthought, and there were few clouds. The moon was strung high, watching over the King, and the cluster of lights up above him seemed to be winking at him at an unrevealed secret, twinkling in their overt beauty. The light the moon was offering was minimal, but enough to shed light on the cobblestone steps, the King managing not to trip at anytime. He had the grace of a tiger, and the heart of a lion. A few stray pieces of rock would not hinder him from completing his mission. He was supposed to do something, and doing he shall.

Hours went by as The King scaled step after step, and the moon had disappeared somewhere in between his journey, rendering him nearly blind. The King could not see a thing, and he was forced to slow down his pace, taking each step carefully, fearful he might step on the wrong spot of the ruined staircase, and fall through a hole. He could not afford to waste time, and an injury or slight scrape, would do just that.

After a while, the steps came to an abrupt end, and the King nearly fell over the other side of the staircase at the suddenness. Beyond the cobblestone, lay the reason the King had scaled an indefinite amount of steps, and over-exerted himself: The Prophetess.

Most common folk called her a witch, others, a messenger sent by God from above, and the rest that didn't believe in the unseen, thought she pretended to have divine ''mystical'' powers. All while the King wondered about the woman who lived on the top of the mountain and just how she had escaped from paying taxes.

The King had heard whispers of a sorcerer who could heal all illnesses, and foretell of events yet to happen. The rumours also told of a few nuts loose in the old woman's mind. They said she spoke of things that were not true -blasphemous- nor credible. Most said she was a sad, deranged woman, and others claimed her to be a smart and knowledgeable scholar. 

The King thought nothing of it, especially when what his subjects said were contradicting, until. . . until he needed the witch's help. The King was desperate, and he would do anything whether it was told to be true, reliable or not. Desperation would do that to a man; turns a man of honour into one who begs to unseen forces.

"Are you going to stand there all day or come in?" The voice coming from the mouth of the cave startled the King and nearly sent him flying down the mountain. . . again.

'Hello?" The King called, taking tentative steps towards the dark opening. "Anybody there?"

"Yes," The voice came again, scratchy, weary, and very, very impatient. "And I wouldn't be much longer once the sun rises."

The King remained in place either way. "It's either you're in, or you're out, Charles. I have much better things to do than wait for you." The King stalled no more, and stomped into the cave, ready to berate the insane woman who deemed it right to call the High King by his given name, but instead he found no one in the cave.

Just then, the King had something scuttle on the other side of the cave. . . at the very end of it. He stepped closer to investigate, and was shocked to find it clean, with tapestries strung on the protruding rocks of the cave, and mats with intricate weaving on the rough, uneven, but swept ground. The King was also surprised to find it filled with clutter- there was a cot pushed to the far left side of the woman's cavern, a wooden desk with numerous sheets of parchment paper, stools piled high with books, cabinets, he imagined, stocked with various foods, and burning wax candles placed everywhere.

"What are you waiting for Charles?" The voice said, and this time the King was able to place where it came from- right in front of him.

The King hastily walked forward, the shadow of a silhouette seated on an old, rickety rocking chair in his sights. Silence enveloped them with a graceful hug as they attempted to survey each other in the dark recess of the cave.

"Got this at a trade on Market's day. A good deal." The shadow patted the chair affectionately, cackling to itself. "It is like the child I never wanted."

There was another long pause before she began talking again, "Well, sit down, sit down! Grab a chair. We have much to talk about."

The King looked around, but found none empty, therefore, he opted to stand. Suddenly, the silhouette rose to its full height -merely reaching the King's waist but the King drew his sword.

"Do not make any sudden movements." The King ordered, but the figure laughed again. 

"Oh, please. Put the toy down, Charles. You will not be needing it anymore," It said, still cackling to itself.

Slowly, he lowered his weapon, "Anymore?" He asked, curious.

"Yes. I assume that is what you came here for, Charles?"

The King stood tall and spoke through his teeth, "I am your King, and you shall refer to me accordingly."

"Blah. Nonsense. There is only one King that I serve, and he wouldn't be here asking me for guidance. Thus, Charles it is. Or you shall not get a word out of me."

The King sighed but conceded, "What is your name?" He asked.

"That is not of your concern." The figure moved closer to him, and he glimpsed an old weathered face illuminated by the moonlight. "You are not asking the right questions, Charles. I can only answer the right questions."

The King gritted his teeth once more, as he did not like the way she continued to refer to him improperly, but decided to think on her request.

Author's Note:

Hello guys! Did you like this entry? If so, don't forget to vote on it, and if you didn't like it, please comment down below on what you'd like to see improved. Next one is coming out tomorrow, so stay tuned for that. For now, later guys.

Peace out.