Sketchbook #5: Prologue to Fate

She ran the stairs hard, taking two at a time. Her boot heals should have echoed in the narrow stairwell but no sound escaped. Decades of necessary silence had taught her well. She did not betray her arrival.

Every fifty feet, the spiral staircase wound to another small crescent window. Glimpses of the outside world grew shorter and more painful as she climbed. Everything she knew was falling further away.

At the top of the age-long staircase was the end of all of it. After all the lives she’d lived, the horror’s she’d faced — and forced — finally, the end. The last bitter chapter. Her destiny was in reach. Of course she doubted her ability to see it through. Stronger than her doubt, however, was the pull of ages. This was her purpose. It belonged to her alone. If she failed, it would mean the total destruction of everything; complete collapse. If she succeeded...

Her breath caught in fiery bursts in her chest. Lungs, veins, muscles tightened.  Blood pumped through her like acid, churning, bubbling. Another two hundred steps. Breathe. She thought of everyone she’d ever known. Bold and painful, like lightning, memories flashed and broke across her mind.

First, she saw her parents. The ones from the field. Following quickly after came the lovers. Men and women of every shape and size. She had loved them all to some degree. Sex was a bitter human right that she devoured willingly with entitlement and grace, but it meant nothing without the added sugar of love. She allowed herself to fall deeply many times, usually without regret. Now, as she felt the weight of finality pressing against her she allowed a seed of regret to take root. Never before and never again. There was only one man that she ever loved and hated in equal measure, and in this moment she allowed the hate to swell and propel her. It was for him that she raced toward death.

Next she thought of her friends. They were few and far between, but they were fierce and true. Under the porcelain mask she wore to hide her face, the corners of her mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. Those few trusted friends. She had been lucky. Would they ever know? Could they ever understand? Of course not. Fate keeps secrets. Fate holds everything back.

Her breathing rattled with the last hundred steps. It was so close now. While her mind turned to remember her city, the danger grew fast in front of her. The massive stones in the walls broke loose and crashed down around here.

From the gaps in the walls, like so many broken teeth, flew the guardians of the tower: demons, small and swift; their claws sharpened to blood-thirsty points, quaking with violence. In swarms they shot forth from the wall. She did not see them at first. Her head was too busy counting the stairs.

Fifty more to go.

Her mind was busy deleting any and all unnecessary memories. Now was the time for clarity. She had always been good at letting go. One fast and silent goodbye to everyone and everything she’d ever known and her mind was at peace.

As she handled the final curve of the staircase, the demons approached. She had been trained well, and it was her training, not her mind, that took hold as the demon-swarm attacked. Without hesitation she grabbed the braded sapphire handle that hung from her belt, raising it in her right hand. With her left, she made a fist, which glowed blue-white, like lightning, as she touched it to the rectangular guard of the handle. In a swift, sharp motion, she thrust her fist up from the handle. With a snap and a spark, where there had been no blade, now a flickering blade of fire appeared. She wielded a sword with a blade of wild flame and a handle of cool, glittering stone. Her mind had nothing to do with it. The motions were pure muscle memory, automatic, and exact.

She sliced five of the bastards in two before she even realized she was holding her weapon. She cried out and ran faster. With each step, more of her attackers fell. Their brittle wings shattered like clay on the stone stair. Their hot green blood splattered absurd stains across the walls. She barely noticed.

A chant escaped her warrior lips. The language was one she had never been taught but had always known. For many years she believed it was a language she’d invented in the quiet lights of her private imagination. But this was no secret language spoken between infants and teddy bears. No, this was an ancient tongue spoken by conspirators and known only to a privileged few. The language was thousands of years old, and she was fluent in it before she knew that other languages existed. Now her native tongue imposed itself. The curse she cast was simple. It translated, in English, to:

Your blood from my hands

Fall humble and fall fast

Take your bold and hard-earned stand

But know your death is now at hand

By the time the rhyme had run its course the entire demon swarm was destroyed. A few of their pieces, arms and legs, were crushed under the power of her boot heal.  Without a second thought she extinguished her blade and re-clipped the handle to her belt. She never once missed a step or lost her stride.

Fifteen more steps. She could smell her enemy hiding behind the door at the top of the stairs. She tasted her own blood as her grinding teeth slipped and tore into the thin tissue of her cheek. She heard the screams of the dead that had fallen in the countless centuries that lead her to this moment. She felt her body go cold as her precious mortality turned the corner and looked her square in the eye. How long she had waited to be face to face with her enemy. She swelled with pride.

The door at the top of the stairs was solid oak, five feet wide, twenty feet tall, and it was coming at her fast. She stopped dead in her tracks. From the bowels of the tower she heard the roar of a beast: its insides twisting, churning and clicking away like the gears of a terrible machine. Surely this guardian creature was fast ascending the stairs in a last-ditch effort to protect its treasure: the master behind the door.

But it was too late. She had arrived unscathed. She took one last deep beautiful breath and reached for the door knob. The metal was cool and smooth in her palm, as she knew it would be. She’d seen this many times in her dreams.

The urge to run, to forget the mission erupted within her with volcanic force. It was her enemy’s face that kept her from fleeing. He who had stirred this passion within her. He who had come to her in disguise. He who had made promises deserving to be kept. Without further hesitation she threw open the door and stepped into the flood of red light. She ignited her sword just as before, in a smooth effortless motion, as the door slammed shut behind her, sealing her in.