Ashes of Prophecy

II: Kane

Kane limps down a beach of soft sand, serene waves crashing to his left and a meadow of wildflowers to his right. The perfect combination of peace and tranquility. Warm water laps at his bare feet, leaving behind a trace of broken shells, seaweed, and bloody footprints. He wears a loose white shirt, stained red and filthy; the long sleeves shredded and flying in the breeze as he walks with an uneasy gait. Blood trails down his torso and legs from cuts and gashes decorating his body. His right hand presses firmly to a wound above his hip to halt any more blood loss; his dominant hand hangs at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips and coating the hilt of the sword he drags behind him. His vision is hazy and his mind light as he keeps his green eyes focused on the treeline at the end of the beach, each step bringing him closer to safety and rest. Each step bringing him closer to her.

"Almost there," he mumbles, praying that the line holds steady. Don't be a mirage, he begs as he struggles to keep his head up. He looks back at the battlefield he left behind in the distance. An eerie silence kisses the land, like the calm before a major storm.

He can still hear the screams of his people.

His head hangs low. They came out of thin air. The king's men decimated his small squad of elven warriors before they even had the chance to fight back, leaving Kane the only survivor. His Mark being the one thing that kept him alive.

He squeezes his fists, thanking the gods themselves that she left hours before the attack. If they had gotten their hands on her... He shudders at the thought. Everything hurts, but his strength to reach her continues to push him forward. He looks at the clear, blue sky and sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'm coming back to you, ví kélea." His promise to her.

Kane gulps, his throat hoarse and mouth drier than the great desert beyond the meadow. A single, shallow slash down the center of his chest rips through his vest and shirt. An emblem of a dragon torn in two revealing his smooth chest underneath and the beginnings of a nasty bruise along his rib cage. His fingers readjust around the hilt of his sword, the tip dragging in the sand alongside him. He takes a deep, shaky breath and winces as a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through his left side. The agony tenses his body and his left leg gives out from under him, sending him stumbling forward.

Grunting, his knees hit the sand hard, his hands splayed in front to stop his face from kissing the ground. "Lökhea," he curses under his breath.

Kane grasps a handful of dirt, slinging it toward a crashing wave. Fury pulses in his veins like a heartbeat as Kane sinks back onto his knees, his body sagging under the weight of exhaustion and injury. He lets out a cry as he shifts his right hand, trying to staunch the bleeding. The cloth he had used as a bandage long since soaked.

The rough sand scrapes against exposed skin as he struggles to regain control of his ragged breathing. His hand moves to his chest, feeling each hardened beat beneath his fingertips. The sharp pain in his side dulls, its intensity fading like an ember. With a slow, deliberate exhale, Kane releases the pent-up air from his lungs, the sound of his breath echoing through the stillness, and reaches for his sword. Bracing himself, he attempts to rise, using the worn leather hilt as a makeshift crutch, its tip sinking into the sand like an anchor.

The glint of something reflective buried halfway in the dirt catches his eye. His aches and pains forgotten, he presses the sword into the dirt and flips the item over.

A dagger? His eyes widen. Her dagger.

He had strapped this on her leg himself just that morning. His thumb traces her name engraved on the blade, his heart sinking in his chest. What if something happened to her? She wouldn't leave this behind. He twists the band on his finger, the one that marked their union. His eyes glance down at the blade in his hand, his wedding gift to her. Nausea overwhelms him, and as he leans over, the breeze suddenly hardens, sending the trees into a rough bow and whistling through his sensitive ears.