The Tudor's Shadow

"Where were you last night?"
The words echoed in Kelli's head as she shoved the body bag off of the bridge, the murky Thames stealing it away, concealing the act, hiding the truth, as it had for the past ten years.
Kelli let out a heartfelt sigh and, just as she was wondering if there was anything for her in this world besides death, a cold, mirthless chuckle emitted from behind her.
"Well, well. My dear Anne, it looks as if you've regained your old spark."
She turned slowly, fully aware of who the voice belonged to, and yet, still shocked as her eyes were lain upon him.
"It's Kelli." Her voice was just as cold as his own, but sharper, edged with spite.
"Oh, come now, Anne, don't be like this. Not even a greeting? No, 'How are you, Henry?' 'Oh, it's YOU, Henry!' or perhaps a 'Henry! Your presence fills the caucles of my heart with every joy on the face of the earth!'"
"You forgot the 'Get the *H-swear* away from me Henry'," she replied with the wit that had won his obsession so long ago. Kelli/Anne turned away from him, and stared into the Thames, wishing its currents could sweep her away from here.
"Aren't you being just a teensy bit harsh?"
Kelli/Anne whipped around, the wind wildly tossing her hair, accenting the fury shown in her dark eyes.
"Harsh? Me? Harsh?! How dare you come here and insult me with your presence and then your filthy words. You have some nerve, your majesty." She said the last with a mocking tone, with a ridiculously low bow.

Is this normal enough, 'cuz I'm not sure...?

Jack lay down on the creaky-springed bed as the cheap hotel room was set ablaze by the swftly setting sun, its last rays tainting everything they touched with the red that was home to this part of the world.
If I can only get a few moments rest, he thought slowly beginning to drift off, despite the eternally honking horns of the eternally impatient drivers on the equally eternally crowded Egyptian streets below. Did they really think it did them any good? That honking their pitiful horns, which sounded more like a baby's rubber duck upon being squeezed, would suddenly force all others to go faster? Or perhaps just disappear? Jack shrugged off such thoughts and thoughts of the big day ahead of him and rolled over, provoking an eerie screeeeech to protrude from the vermin-infested twin bed.
Jack smiled. They probably just honk because everyone else honks, and its just what you do. What a sick habit to--
Four loud bangs prevented any further thought. However, that was not going to stop Jack from sleeping. They'd go away after a few minutes. They always do.
Jack began to submit himself to the refreshing blackness that was sleep. He would not dream. He never dreamed. Not in, what was it? Ten, twelve, twenty years? Who knows how long it'd been since he'd had his last dream. And he was grateful for it. Jack Nightengael was not one to be troubled with fantasies and dreams and wishes. Sleep was sleep; peaceful rest for the mind and body. Nothing more.
Bang, bang, bang.
Jack couldn't believe it. Either he was dreaming, or there was an impertinent pest who had one more chance before he got out of bed; the perpetrators worst case scenario. Jack decided to go with the more obvious. The vermin had one more chance. The ten abnoxious knocks that followed just about mutilated that chance.
With another screech and a vow never to return to this accursed country again, Jack rolled out of what these third worlders called a "bed", and proceeded to the only other piece of furnature in the room. A small wooden desk with a small wooden chair. Jack grabbed the chair and wrenched it from the desk, sending small screws and nails tumbling across the floor. Selecting the leg with the least amount of termite damage, he then proceeded to snap off one of the legs. A simple task for his well-trained arms.
Five more knocks. Patiently examining the leg, and finding that, though corroded, it was still thick, and had a jagged edge due to its recent removal, Jack carried his makeshift club to the door and opened it, prepared for anything.
All right. Prepared for almost anything. In the hallway, directly facing Jack's room, stood a young girl. She looked about fifteen or sixteen, but definitely no older than seventeen. Looking her up and down, Jack snarled and headed back inside.
The moment he turned around, however, he felt something hit him in the neck. It didn't seem very effective, but, just as he was turning around to give the girl a painful reprimand, the world careened about him, growing dim, and eventually blacked out altogether.
Jack awoke a few moments later dazed, with a slight headache, and angry. Casting a sweeping glance at the room, he calculated the damage: his suitcase zipper had slightly moved, the window was approximately an inch more open, his bed was tidier than before, and a couple of the screws and nails had been accidentally kicked to the other side of the room. In short, they had been looking for something, and they had found it. Whoever "they" was.
Jack walked over to his suitcase. Opening it, he found that his credit card was missing from one of the pockets on the inside flap. Great. Reaching into his hind pocket, he found his wallet. He pulled it out.
Oh lovely--they'd taken his I.D. That wasn't inconvenient at all. However, they had left his cash, so they obviously weren't common thieves.
Walking over to the window, Jack leaned against the sill and peered down at the just-as-busy-as-before streets, now shrouded in nights blankets of shadows. A smile crept over his face.
"So," he said to the bustling world, "It finally begins."

Life Goes On

Beatrix looked at the chaos around her. Her lifeless enemies strewn about the once peaceful meadow. She looked down at her hands, sticky with the hot blood. She knew, however, that it was not her own. The accursed flame in the heavens beat down on her armor as a cool northern breeze caused her cape to billow out behind her. Her lips parted, drinking in the breeze as if it were an elixir. Crystalline water for her parched soul.
What’s the use? She thought. I could slay a thousand, no, a thousand thousand more and still, your face would not gaze up at me from the bloodied ground. The whole world could instantaneously incinerate, and still, your face would haunt my dreams, my thoughts…
What’s the use?
Beatrix fell to her knees, head bowed, body as broken as her spirit, her heart. Twittering brought her attention to the skies. Two nightingales flittered about, soaring in and out of each other, all the while singing gaily the earth’s song. The same song that they had been singing centuries ago. The same song they would still be singing, long after her body had corroded and wasted away into dust. If there was peace, the nightingale sang. If the entire world were consumed in turmoil, still the nightingale sang the same sweet song that graced the wind and carried it into the souls of all those who would hear it.
You did this to me, Beatrix thought, turning her gaze, once again, to her gooey fingers. You did this to me, but no more. You may have controlled me once, but now, now it is my turn.
Beatrix threw her head back and laughed aloud. Her voice was not accustomed to being used, let alone in such a gleeful way as this, and cut her off in a half-choke, half-gurgle, but still, she had laughed.
"The willow can age and topple over, whether by menacing axe or of its own accord, and life goes on. The fox can consume all the chickens in the world, and still, the heron’s life goes on. You. You can destroy my love, my heart, my soul, my home, and still—still life goes on."
Beatrix stood. Stood taller than she had in years, and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Not shuddering with fear; not any more. Shuddering with exaltation and renewal. Extracting her sword from its embediment in the soil, Beatrix walked on. And life went on.

Legion (song inspired--we'll pretend it was by jason mraz)

The rain drizzled down on the battlefield; the two forces clashed. Black and white collided, hacked, and bled. Hours went by. The white force began to pull back, and were surprised to see their black-clad enemies act likewise. But, they knew better: they were giving them false hope; time to recover, then crush them later.
Leon entered his tent, his guards taking up immediate position outside. He took off his helmet, gazing at the intricate designs emblazened on it's sides.
So much work, he thought, so much planning...
He threw the helmet at the ground. Turning, he stabbed the maps, scattered across the makeshift table. Sitting down, he leaned his head against his folded arms, and his arms against the "table". Commotion from outside drew his attention away from inner thoughts. Growling and wondering what immature squabble his pathetic soldiers could possibly be commenced in at a time like this, Leon stormed out of his tent.
"What's the meaning of --"
"Sir," his second in command, Gerard, cut him off, "a stranger has entered the camp."
"A stranger, you say?" Leon asked. "Is it the King?"
"No, sir, it's--"
"Then get him out of my camp!" Turning on his heel, Leon headed back to his tent. There was a lot to be done if they were going to escape this with their lives, let alone their dignity.
"But, sir, she has an army."
This caused him pause. Sighing, Leon spun around and marched to deal with this meddlesome intruder, with full intentions of telling him exactly where he could put his army...
Alice ignored the gawking idiot soldiers, her long, determined strides carrying her quickly through the camp. She had thought of putting on a helmet, but it just would have gotten in her way. Finally, she arrived at the captain of the army; he looked as though he'd seen an apparition of some sort.
"Stand aside," Alice commanded him.
Leon couldn't move. His legs felt as if they were about to give out beneath his weight. Turning to Gerard, but keeping his gaze locked on this unexpected guest, he spoke, his throat only managing a whisper.
"The leader of the army is--"
"A woman, yes, sir. I tried to tell you, bu--
"No, not that! It's her?!?!"
"Stand aside," Alice repeated, louder, "or be removed forcefully." She spoke, not with content or malice, but calm assurance, merely stating the facts.
"How on earth did you-- and this army? This army? Where did you-- What have you-- How are you, Alice?" Leon finally managed to mumble. Alice made a swift motion with her hand; there was a flurry of movement, and Leon found himself on his back, looking up at a spectral being, his image shimmering in and out of existence.
"Alice--" he whispered, as her battle skirt brushed against his boots, and she walked past him without a look.
The Sal-Kirith had returned to the battle field, a black sea silently approaching the unaware camp, with death in their clenched fists and frozen hearts. The moment their archers were about to let loose their poison-tipped arrows, poised with such accuracy that they had come to be known as the rain of death, a silhouette appeared on top of the hill in which the enemy camp was stationed. The archers looked to their commander for instruction. He made a few swift hand motions, signaling five to redirect their arrows at the woman, and the rest to continue as planned.
Alice raised her hand above her head, then lowered it to point at the Sal-Kirith leader. He flinched. He had had three of his best mages cloak him in darkness. It was impossible for this human woman to have percieved him through such strong magic.
While pondering this phenomenon, the Sal-Kirith leader had forgotten to give the signal to his archers to fire. By that time, it was too late.
The air around the woman shivered, as if it, too, felt the cold that was speedily creeping over the Sal-Kirith. All at once, the Sal-Kirith saw what it was that caused them to feel this way, and they knew it would be useless to run.
Alice and her legion swept over the army, leaving death in their wake, covering the field in a blanket of black armored corpses.

A tiny voice asked, "Is he the one?"--writing prompt

The night was dark, the stars unusually dim. The cold, Nebraskan wind intruded through the small house's windows, a burglar in the night. It was not, however, unaccompanied. Five small, glowing orbs followed the wind, twisting, rising, and falling with the slight current, like one great, synchronized dance, eventually sweeping them through the open window.



Kade Finch was seven years old, and sleeping blessfully at the time of the breech.



A tiny voice asked, "Is he the one?"



"Hmmmm...he looks annoying," was the reply.



"Oh stop it," rataliated the first, emphasizing the point with a swift blow to the head.



"It'll take a lot of work, "continued the secomd, unfazed, "and will most probably fail, but, yes, he's the one they've chosen." He concluded with a deep sigh. "Just look at him, though, Aris; it's revolting, "he said, his face twisting in sincere agony.

"I'll admit, he is a gooddeal uglier than we'd hoped."

The two tilted their heads to one side, thinking that pergaps a different angle would improve his looks. It didn't.

"we can always make him wear a mask. Or a helmet. Or even wear a paper bag with eye holes! Either way, it matters not. Our orders are to bring this, this--thing back to the Queen. If they decide to behead him there, that's his problem. Come on, the twilight hours are beginning again."

With an exasperated and heartfelt sigh, the two faeries began to weave the treads of reality around the creature, encasing him in a casket of magic. They then proceeded to make the long journey home, stopping only to ask the guards how everything went. Seeing that all was well, they proceeded through the twilight forest, through the webs of existence, onward. Home.