"Ever the Victor" - A Flash Fiction

His wounds drained him of life. A slow but certain death. Blood dripped and seeped into the sands as he stumbled forward. A blade was still gripped tightly in his hand. He blinked, nearly fell back. Memories conjured themselves in his reality, warping his vision between now and then. He saw his wife, beautiful and gracious, bestowing upon him the brightest of all smiles. His son was wrapped around her arm, waving to him, face afire with glee.

Then he saw the sword slashing toward him and he ducked out of the way, barely maintaining his balance. He blinked several more times, trying to keep himself conscious. He dared not die this day. Not yet.

“Fight me, Wicker!” shouted the mad king, his orname garments flowing behind him as he slashed again and again with his sword. The old man was quite agile. Wicker could not sustain this pitiful dance for much longer. Life was fading…

He saw his wife. She was so close to him now, he could smell her scent, that of lilacs and fresh gardens. So near.

The sword came crashing down upon his head and he blocked it with his bracers. He then kicked the mad king in the gut. Hard. He grabbed the king’s silvery hair and plunged the blade into his Adam’s apple. The king choked on his own blood. Gurgled. Clutched at Wicker but found nothing but air and dust. As Wicker let him go, the king fell. Still. Dead.

Wicker crumbled to his knees. His breathing weakened. He could feel his heartbeat slow, the mortality in his veins lying in a growing red puddle beneath him. The crowd that had gathered seemed to suck in a collective breath. Not a whisper was heard. Only a slight breeze cut into the palpable silence.

Wick..

His wife’s voice.

It’s alright now. Come home.

Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to stroke her face but she was gone. A darkness creeped from the edges of his vision. He let out a breath. Looked to the clear blue sky. Saw birds circling. He smiled.

A few men stepped forward to catch him as he gasped and fell. One proclaimed his death.

Wicker grazed his hands along the grass as he walked toward his family, who seemed so happy to see him. He felt no wind nor the warmth of any sun. But sure enough there was light. Everything he saw was like looking through a grey filter. There were colors, yes, but they were dulled somehow.

He could hear a multitude of voices as if they were floating in the air. There was no sense to what they were saying, and Wicker decided that it ultimately did not matter. His family came closer and closer into view, but they also appeared to be even further away. Each step forward was another step back. His walk shifted into a sprint.

He sped through fields and along dirt roads trying to reach them. Out of frustration he pulled out his sword and smashed it into the ground, over and over until his hand hurt, but it didn’t really. The pain was there in an instant and then left as quickly as it came. He opened his mouth to yell, to scream, to unleash hell, but there was no sound.

He glanced toward his family but they had vanished.

It’s alright, Wicker. Come home…

Wicker handled his sword, pressed the tip of the blade against his throat.

“Wick!”

The blade broke skin. Blood trickled.

“WICK!”

Suddenly…

Wicker gasped. Breathed hard. He awoke to a familiar face staring down at him.

“If you’re done napping, friend. It’s time…” And then: “Uh, you alright, Wick? You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“What?”

“The mad king awaits.”

Hurriedly he checked for cuts. Holes. He was, for the most part, entirely unharmed.

Sometime later…

The mad king, in a huff of fury, shouted: “Fight me, Wicker!”

He saw his family, saw the crowd, saw the birds and the sky.

Wondered why, how he was still alive...