A/N: This is my first fanfiction. Sorry it's so short. Torch it. Have fun.
The Sorcerer's Sleep
The wind whistled eerily through the tombs of dead monarchs. It blowed wilted flower petals that had rested against some graves into tiny spirals that looked like the dust devils from the Great Southern Desert. Farther away from the grave markers then any other was a white marble tomb. Unlike others this one had an almost dusty front step. The torches on either side of the entrance were unlit, hinting at a lack of mourners for the body inside. Beyond the entrance was a plain room, no decoration, no tokens in memory. In the center was a raised platform, a single candle burned next to it, throwing shadows across the body that lay on that single platform. They were pale from months spent out of the sun.
The body remained still as death as it lay there. To all eyes the man was dead. Many had seen that moment where newly knighted Alanna of Trebond had stabbed her arch enemy through the scar was covered now by the black velvet tunic. His black-brown hair was neatly combed, the beard perfectly trimmed. Those famed Conte eyes remained unmoving behind their eyelids.
Indeed Duke Roger of Conte, nephew to King Roald of Tortall and one of the most powerful sorcerer's in the Eastern Lands appeared dead. His spirit roamed that place between life and death though, the same place he had sent his young cousin Jonathan. The sparkling orange fire of his Gift kept him tethered to the mortal realm. He could almost feel the Black God's eyes boring into his back as he patiently stared at the light that was the land of the living. He was waiting, he trusted Delia and Alex enough for them to do their part, he never trusted everyone completly. Thom of Trebond was a proud young master, eager to show his talents to the world. It shouldn't be too difficult.
Roger felt himself slip inside the core of his magic, though unaccessable it was still nice to escape the constant emptiness of that gods forsaken place. Here he had created his palace suites in perfect detail, his workroom securely locked, his chess set ready for another game. It was there that he moved, sitting himself into a plush red chair he admired the artistry of the chess pieces. In this particular game the pieces resembled certain humans, all ones he had watched over his last few years. He picked up a pawn sitting before the one that looked like Prince Jonathan. Once he had considered Alan of Trebond as a pawn. A Gifted, athletic, and popular pawn. That had been a mistake.
Alanna, his mind corrected.
He- she- was a powerful player, one to watch at all times. Or kill altogether, that seemed more simple he thought. Looking more closely at the pawn still held in his hand he saw it no longer represented the page so fondly known as Fire- Top. Studying the faces of the opposition he saw her as the King's side Knight. A powerful player indeed, the sorcerer mused. He could still remember that moment when he had died. He felt himself reliving it, as he so often did whenever he thought of death.
Amthymest eyes, driven and focused. Light radiating from the crystal on Lightening's hilt. Fear. Knowing it was over for now. The sword descending through the mist that surrounded him. The power of the Gods glowing around his enemy like a cape. The glory of a Godess appearing. Too much for his poor mortal eyes. Black hair, pale skin, full red lips. The Great Mother turning her back on him. Darkness. Death.
And here he sat, manuvering the players as he saw fit, death was not something that so easily stood between him and the Tortallan throne. He knocked over the opposing king. Leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes, a large grin on his face. He was planning. Waiting for his rescue.
Waiting for a crossroad in Time.
Please review. I know it's not great, any advice would be appreciated.