The Amethyst Flame

The clouds shall be darkened, and the skies will turn red In his fierce anger, he shall raise up the dead Many will fall and bow down at his throne His heart has no kindness as if he’s made of stone Four heroes will bring down his fall Four shall end this evil once and for all They must do this before his power grows If they don’t, there shall be many sorrows and woes ********************************************************************************************************** It was a most unusual summer. (which is saying a lot because the previous year, a troll nearly stole half the mead in the village) Blight and plagues spread through Colmer like a wildfire and killed every crop we planted. You couldn’t go two steps without hearing people whispering about it. So great were the casualties they ran out of space to bury families, having to resort to forests. Seeing so much death filled me with exceeding grief; I had lost those I had known all of my life. The plague took my childhood friend Richard Cresthouse. He was only eighteen. From what I’ve been told, he was fine one moment and dead the next. The sun beat down on me like a flame. I knew I had to take a break or risk going mad. The beets and carrots would not survive either way. Why was I trying at all, you may ask? Well, my father forced me to. He told me that all of this was temporary and that soon the village would be cured. The problem is, every second feels like an hour in hell. I sat down in the cool shade shielded from the relentless sun and heard two voices arguing with the intensity of thunder. My father and brother had another spat. They had vastly different perspectives on life. Logic ran my father; emotions ruled my brother. Arguing with my brother is like getting a donkey to walk on hot coals. I heard a door slam at full force and saw my brother exit the house. His amber eyes showed rage, the likes of which I had never seen before. “Jethro, where are you headed?” I asked, highly concerned for him. “Nowhere, just let me be…” he muttered in irritation. “I’m not that thick.” Jethro sighed deeply, and the maelstrom in his eyes calmed down slightly. “I am on a journey to find a wizard who can heal the village of this pestilence. Surely you have heard mothers and fathers weep for their sons and daughters? I will not allow my family to endure the same torment!” he said assertively with a fiery passion in his eyes. “You are a fool! Don’t you know wizards are the product of imagination?” I asked, entirely shocked at his reason. “Do you believe in miracles?” Jethro asked with a gleam like unto a star in his eyes. “Yes, but not in magic. I cannot believe in that which does not exist. Abandon this quest. I beg you,” I pleaded with a lump in my throat. “Brother, I fear we will have to part. Do not look for me like a bloodhound does to a rabbit. It would devastate me to see you suffering,” he said with a most worrisome expression. “I command you to stay!” I shouted as he ventured toward the forest. “Pardon me, Arthur. Sometimes we must leave those we love to change the world.” “Jethro, please, will you stay for the family?” “No, I will not,” he replied with a grim expression as he ran into the forest, disappearing like the setting sun.