Fear the legend
670 Words
~Third person pov~
An old woman slowly walks down the worn stone path, her feeble frame trembles with exhaustion. Time has etched deep lines of hardship and suffering on her face, revealing a life lived on the edge of existence. Her weary eyes convey a profound wisdom that only comes from enduring a lifetime of struggles and hardships.
With each faltering step, the weight of her impending departure becomes more apparent. The air hangs heavy with the scent of mortality, as if nature itself recognizes the significance of this moment. The sound of her worn shoes scraping against the uneven path reverberates through the stillness, creating a haunting melody that seems to echo the trials she has faced.
Finally, she reaches a stone ledge, weathered by time and etched with the scars of countless years. The old woman kneels down, her frail body trembling with effort, as she gathers her remaining strength to deliver her final message to the world.
Whispering in a voice barely audible, her words carry the weight of a thousand lifetimes. She implores those around her to take heed, to pay attention to the legacy she will leave behind. Her final plea is not for mercy or pity, but a warning to all who have wronged her and caused her suffering.
"Listen well," she begins, her voice filled with a mix of frailty and conviction. "Fear not my fading breath, but the storm that shall follow in my wake. From the blood I have shed, kings shall rise, warriors born of vengeance and fueled by the flames of justice."
Her voice gains strength, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath, captivated by the power of her words. The wind picks up, carrying her message to the farthest corners of existence, as if it is a prophecy meant to be etched into the fabric of time.
"These kings shall be a force to be reckoned with," she continues, her voice resonating with an otherworldly authority. "They will bear the burden of my suffering, their hearts ablaze with the righteous fury of those who have been wronged. The world shall tremble before their might, for they will be the embodiment of retribution."
Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning and foreboding. The old woman's body, frail and tired, seems to glow with an inner strength, as if the power of her final revelation surges through her veins. Her eyes, once dimmed by age, now shine with a fierce determination, as if she is summoning the very essence of the kings she speaks of.
With her last breath, she whispers, "Beware the children of my blood. They shall rise like phoenixes from the ashes of my suffering, and their reign will be heralded by the echoes of my last words. They shall wield justice like a mighty sword, seeking solace for the pain I have endured."
And as the old woman's voice fades into the ether, the world stands silent, awestruck by the weight of her message. The stone ledge, forever marked by her presence, bears witness to her proclamation—a testament to the power of her final plea. Her head comes clean off, and the people dressed in thick black cloaks look at her body waiting for it to fall.
It doesn't. Her head rolls to the ground but she remains kneeling. A last warning, that even in death she is not defeated.
"Do you think her words meant something?" a male questions behind his mask.
The others whisper, wondering the exact same thing.
A woman without a cloak steps forward, get blade covered in blood. She moves her feet to kick the body of the feeble woman but it doesn't move. Her eyes widen for a minute, and then she laughs.
"There's nothing to fear. We've taken the last of that blood line. There's no one who can do anything. She has no children to avenge her." This erupts cheers, and laughter from the people around.
If only they knew.
- Writer
