Dust

Heart filled with rage and indignation, he raced to the riverbank, not knowing exactly why he is running there for. His legs seem to take on a life of their own. His mind raced as he skipped and ran along the riverbank, searching for something but he doesn't know what yet. He gripped even more tightly unto his staff, his faithful staff that has served him so long and so well. He gained a measure of comfort in its heft and its girth and length. His eyes scanned the riverbed as thousands upon thousands of eyes stared at him, some full of desperate hope, some full of scorn, some full of worry, some full of mockery.

There! A voice in him shouted. He stopped, skidding a little along the slippery stones of the riverbank as he stopped on a dime, panting slightly. It is gleaming slightly from the moisture of the river. He picked up the stone in his hand, feeling the weight and smoothness of the stone, buffed by the passage of time and running water. 'Heavy. No,' he corrected himself, 'substantial.' He searches for the brothers of this stone that will serve a similar purpose. As he selected the stones, he dropped them into his bag slung on his waist.

Walking away from the river, he feels doubt begin to infect him. 'What if I fail? This is ridiculous. I can't do this.' But as he made his way forward and stared at the hateful person before him, the doubt is replaced with a rising determination he has felt at least twice before. 'No way I am going to fail now.' he said to himself. He confronts his enemy, and has an exchange of words. 'Good,' he thinks, 'let him mock, let him laugh, let him scorn. It'll be the last thing he does.'

The time has come. The air grows still. Everything slows down. He feels the tension in the air and suddenly his body grows faint. 'No!' he screamed to himself. 'Go!' He forced his legs forward. One step. Another step. Soon, he is running towards the enemy. Strength surged in his body as he reached into his bag and selected the stone. The stone. Placing it into his sling, as he had done so many times before, he twirled it around his head. Once. Twice. Thrice.

'Now.' The stone whistled through the air and finds its mark. Never before has a truer shot been fired, and never again will a shot be as true. His enemy looks stunned, surprised and disbelieving as he crashes to the ground, his momentum carrying him forward and unto his face.

His heart pounding in his chest, he reaches the enemy. Out of breath, he refuses to stop for the fear that his enemy may rise. Gulping air, he reached for the enemy's weapon and unsheathed it. With a guttural growl, he puts his entire body into lifting the sword high enough to allow gravity to do his work for him, plunging the sword into the chest of his enemy. He feels a strange sense of satisfaction as he feels the sword cleaving through skin and muscle, grinding past bones to find its mark, the heart. A little resistance but he leans his body into the sword and something gives.

Adrenalin pulsing through his veins, he smells the coppery tang of blood, of death but also of life. Nothing seems to be moving yet. The whole world seems to have stopped revolving, awaiting his next move. He leans back, pulling out the sword which the body of his enemy surrenders with a shucking sound. Dragging the sword alongside his body, he comes to the head of his enemy. 'Good thing I can't see the face.' he says to himself with a wry half-smile and once again, raised the sword. With a cry of victory, he cleaves straight through the tendons, the muscles and the bones of the neck in one clean stroke. Panting from the exertion and the euphoria, he kicked off the helmet from the head and grabbing the hair, raised the head into the sky and closed his eyes.

Past his pounding heart, he hears a faint noise. From a faint murmur, it slowly builds up and he realises that it is a roar, a war cry. Opening his eyes, he sees a wave of bodies rushing towards him. Panicked for a moment, he turns away slightly from the crowd, wanting to run away. But the crowd is upon him. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling slightly gratified that at least he managed to kill the destroyer. But he feels wind, the wind of people running full flight past him. He opens his eyes and sees the crowd he thought was the enemy run past him and give chase. 'My people.' he thought, with tears in his eyes. 'My people.' He watched as they gave chase to the enemy. Soon, he is left standing alone in a cloud of settling dust.

In the dust, with blood and sweat, a king is born.