A/N: Alright, so I have a tendency of starting stories and not finishing them. That’s usually because I start to really like an idea and then I don’t really have the words or talent to wrap it up. I actually do plan on finishing most of the stories I’ve started (I mean, not ones from a long long time ago, but most of them).

But for now, here’s another prologue in an endless line of prologues. Tell me what you think! I’m thinking of trying for a scholarship where one of the options is to write a novel. So be cruel!

Oh, and by the way, this doesn’t say anything about my other stories. Just because I’ve started another one doesn’t mean I’ll ignore the other two I’ve got going.

Jester

Prologue

A note from the author:

The world moves in mysterious ways.

Oh, the world we live in is straightforward enough. You’re born, you work hard, and you die regardless of how you’ve lived your life. Very simple, almost terrifyingly so. There’s no margin for compromise. You can’t bargain with God or whomever you put your faith in.

But there’s this other world. A bigger one. An older one. Nothing works quite right there. There are no straight lines when it comes to that simple process of living. Everything is twisted. You come face to face with a god and, far from bursting into flame, you can kick back with him. Maybe cajole him into buying you a drink, if you get him drunk enough.

I guess it’s more in keeping with ancient Greek or Norse gods. There’s a lot of lechery, treachery and war. Life is more like a game that you can choose to play instead of just having it dropped upon you. And depending on how you play, your fate is completely up to you.

End note.

Otherwise to be noted: This story takes places in a world very different from earth. In fact, it would be better for all involved if you just forgot that earth even exists. For all intents and purposes, it doesn’t.

The story:

Take my life as a cautionary tale: Never save crazy old women from a bloodthirsty mob. They’ll end up browbeating you into doing something you never wanted to do with copious throwing about of phrases like ‘save the world,’ ‘prophecy,’ and of course the obligatory ‘it’s up to you to rescue mankind from certain doom’. In my case, Grima was the reason I left home about ten thousand years earlier than I wanted to with a metaphorical load way heavier than someone like me would’ve ever even thought of bearing.

I’ll say right here and now that I did not save the world. Grima is a loony old hag, nothing more than an occasional source of amusement and embarrassment. She is certainly not a prophet, unless flower bonnets and false teeth are the fashion these days in that particular business.

I’m pretty sure that around the time she came to my humble village and tackled me in the town square there was nothing much of note going on in the world, and certainly no impending disaster.

I guess she just likes to get a head start in case Armageddon ever is at hand. Again. If there were an Armageddon as often as she predicted, this little old world of ours would be a mess of arid deserts and black holes. Not to mention havoc on the lungs.

This tale begins upwind of Grima, up in the airy room I shared with my brother Duncan.

“It’s morning,” he said dully and quite unnecessarily. I groaned, being a light sleeper, and sat up, glaring at him.

“Thank you, oh wise one. Please feel free to jump out a window.”

It was barely dawn, with light only just filtering through the horrifically girly curtains mom had made when she thought she was giving birth to a girl. She got me instead. Those curtains were the result of mutinous, unyielding protest.

After a few moments of silence I sighed and rubbed at my eyes, deciding not to wait for him to spout another nugget of brilliance.

“Having your heart broken by a harlot does not give you leave to wake me up whenever the hell you feel like,” I grumbled, stomping to my dresser and yanking on my pants. I whipped around and glared at him again. He had been in the midst of opening his mouth to say something but upon meeting my eyes he snapped it shut. “I know she was a ‘lovely girl’ and all, but honestly. What lovely girl reenacts the Carlottan mating dancing in the middle of June, eh? I ask you!”

Full of righteous indignation, I stormed down the stairs, caught up in a euphoria of early-morning goodness that I didn’t often have the option of partaking in, being a late-riser by nature.

“Darling,” my mother said in surprise, looking up from the rolls of parchment littering the table. “What are you doing?”

I scoffed. “Getting breakfast, obviously. Really, mother. You’d think we don’t eat the way you’re always so shocked and appalled to see us near the pantry.”

“Only because you eat like a bleedin’ mule,” she muttered. I gave her a deadpan look that didn’t really come across. “Perhaps I should have phrased it to better convey the shock that I’m feeling at your presence downstairs and fully dressed at dawn on a rest day?”

I tried to pretend like it was apparent that someone like me would obviously have a very busy day ahead of me, thus the reason for my state of dress. It was unfortunate that she was my mother and therefore knew me better than anyone should ever know anyone else.

“Did you forget?” she asked pityingly.

“…No.”

“Go back to bed, Max. Unless you plan on lurking about the Academy’s empty classrooms, there’s not very much for you there.”

I gave a huffy little sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

I traipsed back up the stairs to sulk in my bed, ignoring my brother, who was chuckling like an idiot.

Alright, false start.