(no subject)

[toothycat]

Original here.

"Once a century, the forces of Good and the forces of Evil meet in ritual battle to decide the fate of the world for the next one hundred years..."

Yeah, yeah, heard it a million times. And I of all people must know the whole thing by heart. I am, after all, the king's heir, and thus a distant descendant of the very first Warrior of Good. There's luck for you! If only I was born just a year or two later or sooner... but no. It is, of course, in our family that the Chosen One is born every hundred years - you know, the poor sod that has to go and fight the Warrior of Evil. In case anyone still hasn't guessed, the current Chosen One is me. Rotten luck, as I was saying. And so that no doubt may be left, I even have a special birthmark on my right shoulder; and miracles happened at the time of my birth and various signs all point to me. With things like that, there's no way to get out of it. Seventeen days after my seventeenth birthday they dressed me in my granpa's chainmail, handed me my great grandfather's sword, my dad kissed my forehead and off I went to the Arena of the Ages. Go, sonny, decide the world's fate.

It wouldn't be so bad if it was some normal lad, marked by evil, come out to fight me. Sure, I'd have beaten him up; it's not like I've never beaten anyone up before. Won another century of renaissance and peace for the forces of good. Or lost, if it came to that, though that'd suck, of course. But no-one came forth to fight me, you see.

It's not even that all the Black Knight's descendants have died out - no, there's plenty enough of them. If it comes to that, I myself am his great-great-great-frig knows how many-grandson. My great grandfather - the one whose sword I got - fought on this very arena a hundred years ago as the Chosen Warrior of Good. And it wasn't just anyone he beat, but my great grandmother; she was performing on the side of Evil. That is, she wasn't my great grandmother then yet, it's later they married; and nine months after that my granpa was born, and so on. From my great grandmother we all inherited - all of us, my granpa, my dad and me - a strange mark on the left cheek, a birthmark in the shape of a bat. And, of course, there were special signs at my birth, and the black crow came to my cradle, and incidentally I speak the language of serpents freely. So, doubly lucky, then.

When I turned seventeen years and seventeen days old, all my great-aunts and uncles and distant cousins came in a big crowd, threw a black cloak over my chainmail and pinned it closed with my great-grandmother's ruby brooch, handed me a bone staff and sent me off to the Arena of the Ages.

So here I stand like a complete idiot. On my sholder - one mark, on my cheek - another; a sword weighs down one hand, a bone staff glows with unholy light in the other; and what the hell I'm supposed to do now, I've no idea. How am I to decide the world's fate? With whom do I battle? Who do I beat up?

Comments

[wikivic.livejournal.com]

i like it! tho i want to know what happens next >.<;

i wish this guy's stories were all translated into english - i can think of so many people that i would buy the books for! (me being the first one)

[toothycat]

Heh :)

Alternative, from the comments: "Once a century, the forces of evil meet in ritual battle to decide which of them is to be named the force of good..."