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The prophet saw the remains of the crossroads in her dreams. She saw the fire. She saw the ash. She saw who was once a queen, who was once a king. Tethered by something and soon to become nothing.
She saw Him. She saw the shadows and the blood. She saw grass become ash. She felt the world tremble. She felt everything. Her bones quaked, her blood boiled.
He looked at her with eyes that hung with flames. Malice and manifestation. Destruction and destiny.
Fate called like a beacon of light. Beckoning. Coaxing. Temptation writhe in the air, filling each breath with power.
The prophet knew this was evil incarnated. She knew that even the strong could falter. Even the mighty could fall.
Those eyes reeked of conquest. A conquest so close but snatched at the last second.
But the loss did not shake Him.
He simply changed direction.
He looked at her. She looked at Him. In the field of ash and blood and love and hate and fire and hatred.
All that was waiting. Had been waiting. Would wait forever.
Those eyes looked at her. A voice, soft as a tender kiss.
Let me in.
*****
The first crack appeared high in the mountains. The second in the ruins of a castle. The third in the middle of a town square.
Then the fourth, fifth, sixth.
Eventually, the world of Mineras was consumed by cracks. The thinnest lines in the fabric of the world. Roses bloomed nearby, apparently.
Then the sky became streaked with red. The dead walked, appearing from no where.
Nobody knew the cause, or perhaps they refused to believe it.
The prophet called the cracks spindles.
The prophet was ignored.
The prophet said this was the work of a devious god called What Waits. Who failed to take over Allward and now set his sights on this place.
The prophet was ignored.
Then the prophet got stabbed by a bunch of angry people, so her words died with her.
The world moved on, or at least attempted to. Ignorant. Blind. Broken and rotten.
The prophet’s son, however, unfortunately lived.
The prophet’s son did have a name. However, according to the followers of his mother, his name was irrelevant. They believed every word his mother had said. Even when the world had rejected the bringer of vision, her followers hung on her every word. The blind leading the blind.
Now, the prophet’s son trudged through the forest, with one follower ahead, and one behind. It was only the three of them. They were heading to one of the cracks. Apparently the prophet had babbled some nonsense about the cracks. That there was a way to close them. So they wanted to drag the prophet’s son to the site of the crack to see what could be done.
Because that made sense. The world was splitting. According to the prophet, the god was coming to destroy them all. She was dead now. But absolutely, let’s drag her wretched offspring into the woods and pray a miracle occurs.
“Not much farther now. We are close. Can you not feel it, son of the prophet?” The robed figure in front of him said, announcing it not to the prophet’s son but to the trees.
The prophet’s son rolled his eyes. “I have a name.”
“Your name does not matter. Only your fate does.” Spoke the robed figure behind him. “You must be the one to bring us hope.”
“Hope is dead. The sky is red. You are fools, asking me to stem the bleeding of a wound too deep to heal.” The prophet’s son pulled his cloak across his chest, a frown slapped on his face. As it had been for the whole journey.
The figure in front of him chuckled. “You speak as she did.”
“I speak as we all do. Yet you still stabbed her.”
“Her words angered people. They could not face the truth like we did.” The figure behind him retorted, voice stern.
“And what if when we come to this crack, my words anger you? Will you turn on me?”
“Of course not, son of the prophet.” One figure said.
“We would never, son of the prophet.” The other said.
Sweet lies. The prophet’s son knew them well. All devotion, all trust. But ready to defect at any moment. The prophet blindly trusted her followers. The prophet spoke to them proudly of her dreams of what was to come. What she saw in her white eyes. If only she knew. If only the prophet’s son could have made her see.
The three stopped before a clearing. One of the robed figures gestured to the space without trees, where roses were blooming on the ground. Roses in times such as these. Life in death. These were strange tidings indeed.
The crack was thin. A line of shimmering golden light. It sparkled under whatever the sun had become. The other robed figure shoved him forward, so hard that he fell to your knees in the patch of roses. The thorns poked through his thin trousers, piercing his skin. He looked back at his two escorts.
They stood motionless, their faces completely shrouded by their long hoods.
The prophet’s son sighed heavily. They were waiting. For him to do something. Waiting for a miracle, a vision to be flashed before his eyes. The prophet’s son looked down at the roses. Freshly bloomed, ripe as apples and the shade of pristine blood. He looked up at the crack.
It called to him, somehow. Pulsing, radiating.
Friend, it said. Kinsman. One of another. Lost for so long, but now found again.
The prophet’s son felt his hand twitch. He looked down and before he could even scream, he lurched forward, reaching for the crack. Then everything went black.
*****
It was a dream.
It was not a dream.
Not his, anyway.
When the prophet’s son opened his eyes, he was in an unfamiliar place.
A beach.
The ocean stretched out wide. The night sky hung overhead. The moonlight reflected on the waves. There were stars, twinkling in a way he had not seen for some time. For so long there was nothing but red. He had forgotten how the sky was meant to shit. He had forgotten that Mineras was meant to change with time. That days were meant to mean something until nothing meant anything any more.
To the surprise of the prophet’s son, he was not alone. Only a few steps away from him was a young woman. Staring at him. An expression mixed of fear and concern.
“Who are you?” She asked. The young woman had golden skin and dark hair. Her eyes were black, a stark contrast to the white eyes of the prophet’s son.
“The prophet’s son.” He said instinctively, standing up. He brushed the sand from his clothes.
“What does that even mean?” The woman snapped back with a scowl. “What prophet? What are you doing in my dream?”
“This is a dream?” He looked around. “I did wonder why the sky was not red. Red becoming so familiar to us that it is the colour we see long before we bleed.”
“What are you even- the sky being red?” The woman shook her head. “Explain who you are, right now.”
“I’m the prophet’s son.” He said again.
“Who is the prophet? I’ve never heard of them. What part of Allward are you from?”
The prophet’s son could hear it in her tone. She was getting angry. Scared more so. The two were always closely interlinked.
“Allward? I’m from Mineras.” Then he stopped. “Allward.”
“Yes. Allward.” The woman looked at him like he was stupid.
He gasped. “Allward. The realm What Waits failed to take over.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. She took a step away from him. “How do you know about that?”
“My mother, the prophet. She spoke of seeing the burning of the crossroads. A king and queen. Something then nothing. Then she saw Him in the ashes. Coming. Calling. Changing direction. Then the cracks appeared.”
“Cracks- you mean spindles?”
“Does it matter?” He said bluntly. “Names are names only by definition.”
“Do you always talk so strangely?”
“Do you?” He asked her, raising an eyebrow. “But you seem to know what I speak of. Is there something I should know?”
“There’s a lot of things.” She paused. “I’m Corayne. Who are you? Or should I simply refer to you as the prophet’s son?”
“The prophet’s son will do. I have not heard my name in a long time. It would do us no good here.”
The woman- Corayne, sighed. “Where do you want me to start?”
“The beginning. Unless in Allward you have a different method to tell stories?”
Corayne began with the beginning, as traditionally expected when one spins a tale. She spoke of her family, of her blood, of the people of Old Cor. The prophet’s son had heard whispers of such a thing, of people who travelled between the realms. But they were nothing more than stories to him. Though it seemed now he should start believing the words of the dead prophet. She spoke of the spindles, of the spindleblade. Her uncle and his bride, known as the Empress Rising. She spoke of their fate. She told the prophet’s son about betrayal and bloodshed. Of immortals wanting to return to the place that was once home to them. She spoke of many things, an epic legend spanning the stars.
“You closed the crack to the crossroads, and doomed us in the process.” The prophet’s son stared at her with fury in his eyes. “You left your own blood and his love to burn and in doing so damned us to our deaths.”
“What are you talking about? I closed the spindle I protected Allward.”
“He lives, child.” The prophet’s son said with a snarl. “He lives and He has now set his sights on Mineras.”
Corayne shrunk in on herself. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. Nothing could have predicted this. We can only stop the gods as if we stop the waves of the ocean.” The prophet’s son gestured to the sea of the dream. “You sealed it away. You saved it. But you left those two to their fate, why?”
“You don’t know what they did son of the prophet. They made their choice.”
“Choice decided by fate. What if they were always destined for that? You said it yourself, the man who shared your blood was cast aside in favour of his brother. It was inevitable he would be scorned for such a slight. One that a god of destruction could easily take advantage of.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“No. But you could perhaps try and understand what plays into fate. What scripture and direction it follows.” The prophet’s son shook his head. “How do I stop him?”
“Close the cracks- the spindles.” Corayne said, as if it was a simple fact. “You said you were the son of the prophet. Where is the prophet now? Did they see anything?”
“My mother was stabbed by those who once believed her.”
“I’m sorry.”
The prophet’s son shrugged. “Prophets are only loved when their visions are what people want to hear. I presume the moment I awaken from this dream if I do not say what they wish I will be stabbed too.”
“What did your mother say?”
“That she saw Him at the crossroads. She saw it on fire. She saw the grass become ash beneath His feet. He spoke to her. Told her to let me in. Then the cracks began to appear. The sky turned red, there was an army of the dead, the world is going insane-,”
“You are running out of time.” Corayne said sharply. “How did you get here? Into my dream?”
“Why does that matter, child of spindle? Tell me what I must tell them. What guidance, what vision do you have so that I may save it?”
Corayne chuckled. “I’m no prophet. I thought that was your mother’s skill.”
“She is dead for it. And when I wake from this dream, I must know exactly what to say or I will be dead too.”
“Where are you right now? In Mineras, where are you?”
“By a crack. I touched it. My hand moved on its own. Reached for it. As if I was lost and now found. Connected to it.”
“It was calling to you.” Corayne’s eyes widened. “You’re of Cor blood. Only the people of Cor can open spindles.”
“I can assure you I never opened a crack.”
“Maybe you didn’t. But your mother did.”
The prophet’s son felt his body tremble. Corayne, undeterred by the harsh truth she had cast out into the open air, continued speaking. “Only Cor blood can open or close spindles. You are the son of the prophet, after all. She saw Him and decided to surrender the realm to him. Maybe to protect you.”
“The prophet never cared for her son.” He shook his head. “My mother never cared for me.”
“I cannot comment on that. But you have the power to stop it.”
“Me?” The prophet’s son scoffed. “What about you? Why don’t you come and fix the destruction. Change my world’s fate?”
“I don’t have the spindleblade any more.” She paused. “But you’re here. After touching the spindle. You, of Cor blood.”
“Speak plainly, child of spindle.”
“Bold statement coming from you.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “You don’t need the spindleblade. Because you are the blade.”
The prophet’s son tilted his head curiously. “What are you saying?”
“When you wake up, the crack will be gone. That is your destiny, son of the prophet. You are the only one who can fix this.”
“How did you fix it? With a sword?”
“With a sword, and some friends.” She looked at him with a sharp eye.” Do you have friends? People you can count on?”
The prophet’s son snorted. There was nobody who cared for such a person. There were the followers, who only believed words when they were sweet like honey.
Then there were the ones who never believed a word of it. Ready with knives and would poison his food should they have the opportunity to dine with him.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Corayne said with a laugh. She looked out over the horizon, to beyond the sea. In a flash, there was the sun rising. “Find companions, son of the prophet. Let me them help you close the spindles. You’re the only chance your world has got.”
The prophet’s son followed Corayne’s gaze to the horizon. To the blazing sun that reminded him of the sky above him. The daily constant. He felt his vision blur.
He fell backwards into the sand, allowing reality to claim his incorporeal body from the dream.
Then he woke up.
*****
When the prophet’s son awoke in the bed of roses, the hooded figures were gone. Gone like the whisper of a wind, leaving no trace they were ever there. He realised that was the plan all along. Abandon the son, for he spat the same lies his mother did. Ignore the bleeding sky, the dead. Madness had set in already. The world of Mineras was collapsing in upon itself. Exactly as He had intended.
The prophet’s son got to his feet. That’s when he saw that the crack- no, the spindle was gone. That thin golden line was no more. He still felt something stir in his bones. In his blood.
The rest of the spindles across his world.
Calling to him, like a moth to the flame.
The prophet’s son stood up, wiping the dirt from his knees. He looked around. Whether it was morning, he could not tell. All there was to see was a red sky. Perhaps the spindle child was right. Whatever was calling to him, he had to seal them. Answer the call, save what he could.
Then perhaps he could fade into oblivion, and nobody would have to listen to prophets again. He turned, stomping the roses beneath his feet as he left the clearing. To whatever fate came next. To another spindle. Another flash, another moment. To another answer.
*****
Let me in.
The son of the prophet saw the remains of the crossroads in his dreams. He saw the fire. He saw the ash. He saw who was once a king and once a queen. He held her in his arms, even as the fires burned around them. Even as they became nothing but a haunting.
Let me in.
The son of the prophet told them they could rest now. He would ease the fires. He would seal Him away. The prince of darkness and Old Cor blood thanked him.
Let me in.
Malice and manifestation. Destruction and destiny.
Fate called like a beacon of light.
Let me in. I can make them listen.
In the field of ash and blood and love and hate and fire and hatred.
Let me in. You could be their saviour.
The first crack was closed in the forest. The second in the mountains. The third in the ruins of an old castle.
Then the fourth, fifth, sixth.
In patches of roses, the prophet’s son heeded the words of What Waits. But ignored them. They were words. Words had no currency, no value. No price.
Let me in. I know your name. I could make them scream it.
The prophet’s son found friends. Only a few, but enough. Enough to travel, enough to journey. Those with their minds still steady and hearts still beating.
Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.
All that was waiting. Had been waiting. Would wait forever.
The prophet’s son made sure He would wait.
There would always be those who crave power. Those foolish enough to make the choice to trust such dark words and wretched promises. Or those who were set on a path fate had decided for them long ago.
Something, or someone would always answer What Waits.
The realms needed that sort of balance.
The prophet’s son charged towards the next spindle. Though he had long abandoned that title.
He was the spindleblade.