Happy Monday, everyone! ^-^
It’s time for another writing prompt, chosen by you! This week, the winner is…
It’s time to choose my next #writingprompt! The prompt of your choice will be posted on my blog on Monday 🙂
— Sarina Langer (@sarinalanger) November 8, 2016
Thank you to everyone who joined in and voted. The next poll will open next week Monday and remain open for 24 hours 🙂
As always, if the prompt speaks to you feel free to borrow it! If you do and publish it please link back here so I can be nosy 😉
(f.; warrior woman)
When I was five I decided that I wanted to be a hero. A brave, fierce warrior like the ones my Pa told me about every evening. I knew the story of Aughild, who battled a hundred dragons in her lifetime, and I liked the story of Rognir, who had single-handedly ended the revolution at Blackstead, but most of all I loved the story of Filna the Just, who travelled around the world and ended crime wherever she found it.
Pa wasn’t happy when he found me swinging a sword at the neighbours’ chickens, pretending they were bandits. The weapon was much too big for me, and it took me all of my effort not to topple over and impale myself on it, but I thought that’s how it worked.
I’d found the sword in the blacksmith’s shop around the corner. It had been a few years before my growth spurt; he didn’t even realise I was inside the store. My Pa apologised for days to the smithy’s master after he’d returned the sword and smacked me over the head with his palm!
Being a hero, a proud warrior, had seemed so glamorous back then. It had seemed like the life to me, and I had been so sure that I wanted ten pieces of it for myself.
But stories never mentioned the dark caves, the whispering sounds in the night, or the monsters waiting in the darkest corners of the forest. There are mentions to keep children and other wannabe heroes interested, of course, but no one tells you about the details. No one tells you about your life draining out of you while you lie in a deep, warm puddle of your own blood on the cobble stone street at night, your only chance of survival being an unlikely passerby who takes pity on you. No one mentiones how terrifying dragons and armies of bandits really are, when you’re hiding and trying to figure out your chances.
Five-year old me had been foolish and hopeful. I had slain five dragons in the last ten years, and had killed hundreds of bandits and cutthroats; that my life should end here, at the bottom of a well with a girl’s lock box in my arms, was exactly why Pa had begged me not to go. But who could have foreseen that Bathilda, The Red Warrior, would die like this? Because she had been tricked? I’d been confident but now I knew that I was just as foolish as that little girl swinging a stolen sword at chickens had been twenty years ago.
I blinked when something crumbled above me and thin rays of light lit my dank surroundings.
“Is anyone down there? I thought I heard something!”
I cleared my throat, and answered. It looked like my end was a way off still, after all.
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All writing belongs to the author, Sarina Langer