*Prophecy

Intro: Whenever there is a prophecy in a book, you can pretty much guarantee that the POV character will be the one destined to fulfill the prophecy. I decided to write my own story based on prophecy.

Brandon used his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. He heard Stephen's methodical steps in the dirt as the man dropped seeds into the furrow he'd plowed. The horse whinnied, shaking his head and Brandon looked up. A man stumbled towards them, across the already planted portion of the field. His feet scuffed through the neat piles of dirt.

"No. No. No!" Stephen took off running, jumping over the rows. "Stop!"

Brandon kept hold of the horse as the man continued bumbling through their afternoon's work. Stephen practically tackled the man and both of them fell. The man struggled to rise, clawing at the ground.

"Brandon, help."

He patted the horse's neck. "Stay. Please." Without any hope of the horse doing what he said, he leapt over the first furrow and picked up speed. He grabbed the man around his shoulders and was nearly thrown over. With Stephen holding down his legs and Brandon practically sitting on his chest the man flailed his arms.

"The day has come. A lord rises in the north who shall unit the people under one flag. The demon king shall fall and the land shall blossom as an oasis. The trials shall begin there. A betrayal of the cruelest kind. A love lost. Dreams shattered. Blood flows. A nation won."

He shook nearly knocking Brandon off. The man flopped on ground, his eyes staring up at the cloudless sky.

"Is he dead?" Stephen asked.

"I don't know. We should get him to the herbalist."

"What about what he said?" Stephen said. "It sounded important."

"I wasn't paying attention." Brandon stood up and looked down at the man. His chest rose and fell.

Stephen moved to stand next to Brandon looking down at the man. "He's some sort of prophet, spouting off a prophecy and you say you weren't paying attention?"

"I'm just a farm hand. Why would I pay attention to what some crazy old man is saying after he tear'd up our field?"

"But what if the prophecy was talking about us? What if it was one of us who he was talking about?"

With Brandon on one side and Stephen on the other they hauled the man up and started dragging him to the edge of the field.

"I am a farm hand. Nothing more," Brandon said between breaths. The man was heavier than he looked but then he remembered how easily the man had almost thrown him. It took nearly twenty minutes to get the man to the herbalist and as soon as they deposited him on the table, Brandon turned to leave.

"Are you really leaving? What about the prophecy?"

Brandon turned back to Stephen with an eyebrow raised. "I would rather not be involved in a prophecy deciding my every movement." He headed back to the field. Fifteen minutes later, Stephen joined him and they started the process of planting again.

"Can you believe it? They chose the sheepherder's boy and his blacksmith friend to fulfill the prophecy. They leave tomorrow with the old man."

Brandon kept his hand on the horse, staring at the ground. "I can't say I'm not sorry. I am sure there will be plenty of opportunities to fight if war is coming. At least this way, we have a choice of what we do."

Stephen remained silent. The horse plodded on but already Brandon thought he could smell smoke of an army headed this way.

"Who wants to go looking for trouble when it finds us with no trouble?"

"Yeah, sure," Stephen said. Already, Brandon could see Stephen planned to tag along with the group whether he was wanted or not.

***

Brandon wiped the sweat from his brow, the sword heavy in his hand. He heard the steps of the other townsmen around him as they walked around the fallen bodies on the field. Horses whinnied and ran free and riderless. They had beaten back the last wave of enemies. This had been the last stand. The war was ended.

A man stumbled across the field, tripping over those who hadn't been fast enough in defending themselves. He clutched his side and continued on, looking around in a daze.

"Captain," one of the men called out. "Who is that?"

He lifted his hand shading himself from the sun and let out a low curse. "Bring the medic. This is one of our own."

He took off at a run, his legs trained after years of fighting. The demon king had fallen three years earlier only to have a threat of a new kind rise to challenge the new lord ruler. Jealousy. He kept his eyes on the figure as he rounded and jumped over the bodies. The figure moved, tripped and Brandon had just enough time to drop his sword and catch the man. He could hear men running up behind him.

"Stephen, you fool. What happened?"

"Prophecy dictated a betrayal. I never thought. I wanted the kingdom and all I received in the process was a fate dictated by those whose belief of riddles is stronger than reason."

Stephen lifted his hand and held out an object wrapped in a burlap sack. "The one to rule should have a belief of reason. You are the only one I could think of." His eyes drifted closed and the item fell to the ground when his hand dropped. Brandon stared down at his friend, despair threatening to crush his heart.

"Isn't that Stephen the Betrayer?" A man asked. Another man moved forward, picking up the bag. Brandon didn't even notice when a heavy circled was placed on his head and the men cheered for the new king. His eyes remained fixed on his friend weathered from the years of chasing prophecy.

"All hail, King Brandon. Long live the king."

Brandon stood, pulling the golden circlet from his head. He grabbed the nearest shovel and started the arduous task of burying the bodies in the field he had once plowed with his friend. With the grave dug, Brandon placed the body and crown and buried them. He turned on his heel, already planning where he would farm next when all was said and done.