I was suddenly seized by an idea a few days ago, to write an AU set in some kind of post-apocalyptic world. I don't know where it's going to take me, but I've got plans for the next couple of chapters at least, and I'll be trying to write them in between my university studies.
Kemet. Once a majestic land of gold, jewels and beauty. Admired near and far, the nation prospered and flourished, giving its people all it needed. Or so I've heard, anyway. To live here was to truly be alive.
Until the Dark One came.
Since then, it's been hell on earth.
My name is Marik Ishtar. I'm eighteen years old, and seven days ago, I first saw the outside world.
It's just how the stories described…dead, lifeless, and teeming with the ever-present sense of evil. I could turn back, but there's nothing left for me at the place I once called home. Nothing but death, isolation and despair. I am the only survivor of my people. I'd cry for them, but I've nothing left to cry with. Near every emotion was stripped from me on the day of my initiation into the cult that raised me.
But now they're gone, and I must fend for myself. I can read and write, but there are no signs or maps in this wasteland to direct me to the nearest town. It feels like I've been wandering forever, simply hoping I might find civilisation soon. I'm exhausted, sore, wounded, and ill. The day I fled the tombs, my thigh was cut with a knife, and it has festered since. Now a fever ravages my body, and if I don't find a town soon, I'm going to die. It might be better for me to keel over and just pass away in this godforsaken world, but shrouded in darkness or not, this is my chance to live, to experience everything I have been denied. I will not die yet. I can't.
And yet, as the sun beats down upon me, every step feels like my legs weigh a ton. I don't know how much a ton actually weighs, but I'm told it's a lot. My chest burns with every breath and my head is hot and feels thick with fog. My leg screams in protest every time I move, scabs cracking and leaking blood through the makeshift bandage I tied around the wound. It's useless. If I don't make it, at least I know I didn't go down without a fight.
I can't…I can't take another step. It hurts so much.
I sit down heavily on a rock and hold my head in my hands, groaning in pain. I had no knowledge of the herbs, salves and poultices used extensively by the women in the tombs, but if I had, I might have been able to save myself. If I'm lucky, I might lose my leg. If I'm a little more fortunate, I might slip into a coma and be blissfully unaware of the agony.
No…no, I can't stop now. Move, Marik…move.
But I don't make more than a few more steps before my leg gives out and I collapse into the dirt. It feels cool and comforting against the heat of my fevered complexion. Maybe I should just…lie down here awhile and…and close my eyes…
I guess nobody could say I didn't try to survive.
