The Messenger (Day 1)

Empress, your servant approaches. He gropes at the frozen forest air in coarse gasps. As he expels it again his breath turns to mist, hanging on the air like a ghost of the banner he used to carry. The cheeks that used to flare red against the cold gave up their resistance hours ago; now the whips of winter pelt your servant's face with newfound mirth, and the ice has reached in and penetrated the marrow of his cheekbones.

He has ceased to recite his prayers; it has been long since he had enough of his voice left to carry over the wail of the wind and the crackle of the snow under his boots.

A wrist-thick branch, frozen solid, snaps like a leper's finger under your servant's feet. He fights to keep his balance and manages not to fall over. He must keep his balance and, above all, he must keep moving, steady steps up the shallow slope. What was once a physical effort has become mindless trudging; he doesn't even feel his feet anymore, he is moving forward only because his legs have forgotten what it means not to walk. His feet have forgotten how to stop.

Your servants fought valiantly, Empress, but the winter took its toll, and the heretics and savages from the north outnumbered us heavily. Only this standard bearer escaped their wrath, and since then he has done his most to reach you with greatest expediency.

His steed allowed him to gain the first three hundred miles with haste, but it expired before the last one hundred. Your servant has been covering ground as fast as he has been able, but weariness and cold have impeded his progress. The enemy is on the move even as your servant makes his way now. He prays he will be on time to bring these grave tidings before the Throne.

The wind ceases. This brings temporary relief from the bite, but the wail still rings in your servant's ears. Just as he doubts his voice will ever be with him again, he is afraid the wailing will.

The trees sparse out abruptly as your servant reaches the top of the hill. The sun gets through to your servant here, and he is heartened by the bit of warmth it brings him. But he is even more heartened to see the golden tower of Lufundi, the Hall of the Throne, glinting in the distance. The sky is cloudless and, on the bald head of the hill, the sight is clear.

Your servant feels a jolt in his chest.

He looks down to find his coat pierced by the shaft of an arrow. It runs flawlessly through the bearskin and it has splintered the bottom of your servant's breastbone. On the arrow's bodkin tip, he recognizes red drops of his blood, blood belonging to the Throne.

He tries to utter a plea of forgiveness, but his throat has died long ago, and the rising wind suffocates even the weak rasp of his last breath.

Your servant has failed you.

* * *

A humble (not to mention late) start. But at least it's a start. I'll try to cook up another one in the remaining hours of today to catch up. Meanwhile, feel free to comment on this work.