Fated Chaos

(As a note, this is not a pretty story. It reveals the ugliness of human nature and the power of fear.)

Fate.

It’s such a cruel and inevitable thing.

Cruel in the way it can easily give someone everything they ever wanted before stripping it all away. It can doom a person to an early death while in the same stroke, grant a long and fulfilling life to someone else. It gives one their soulmate, while forcing another to forever roam the lonely abyss.

The lucky ones are fated with good lives, and the unlucky know nothing but misfortune.

Out of all the different fates, the one of the hero has always fascinated Phinara Brieth the most.

The hero’s fate, according to the stories and songs, is to save the world. They go on their hero’s quest, meet their companions, train their power, defeat the villain, and save the world as they discover who they were always meant to be. Their journey is always one of self-discovery, filled with romance and danger.

They are fated to be worshiped and welcomed by the masses with parades in their honor. Statues are carved in remembrance of the hope they gave the people during their hour of need. The tales of their heroic deeds are sung by bards in their poetic flair and whispered among the children as they play with their wooden swords, wishing to be heroes themselves.

Phinara has always enjoyed those stories. Like those children, she would have grand adventures in the meadow by her village with her younger sister and their friends. She would be the hero that saved them from the villain’s evil clutches.

Those were simpler times; when innocent naivety blanketed their eyes from the darkness and cruelty of the real world.

Phinara desperately wished that was her fate—that it was her story. She wished that her play at being a hero was real.

Her life would’ve been a lot easier if it was.

The familiar screech in the air causes the villagers of Ayrith to freeze. The sound had been engraved into their very being; a warning of news favored or news dreaded. 

Phinara looks up, a strange feeling settling over her as she watches the prophet’s owl descend upon the village center.

No one has ever seen the owl’s master, but her prophecy’s are as true as the rising of the sun—they are fact. The owl, Khuinae, has been the prophet’s messenger longer than Phinara has been alive. This was the first time she had ever seen the majestic creature.

Khuinae was made of pure white, wispy feathers that flowed behind him. His pale blue eyes, like the icy sea of Thurn, burn with power and intelligence. He stands nearly five feet in height, towering over Phinara.

As he settles, his eyes flit over everyone before locking on her. Something tells Phinara that he’s there for her. She can’t explain how she knows, but she feels it in every bone. It feels like his gaze is gripping onto her soul as he speaks the words of his master.

By the twentieth year of Phinara Brieth, this world will be plunged into chaos by her scarred hands. Through her pain, wrought with misfortune by hands close, the sky will redden, the seas will burn, the air will wail in agony, and the ground will split to swallow all in endless darkness. When she is low, skin burned, fate will give her a choice: save the world or let chaos consume it.

The words ring through the air, filled with power and followed by silence. They wash over Phinara, sinking into her very being. Khuinae gives a mighty beat of his wings to push himself into the air.

And then he’s gone.

One by one, the villagers turn to her. She doesn’t need to hear words to know that her world has shifted. She can see it in their eyes, feel it prickling at her skin as their fear and confusion is aimed towards her. 

In this moment, Phinara knows her wish has been squashed beneath the weight of words strung together by ordained lips.

She is not a hero meant to save world… she is the evil meant to paint it endless chaos.

The repercussions of the revelation is slow.

The first month is somewhat normal as the villagers return to their normal day-to-day, and Phinara plays together with her friends. It’s as though a prophecy was never spoken. 

But there is tension in the air that no one addresses. Everyone heard the prophecy, but no one knows just what to do about it, nor what it really means. Phinara has never been a violent child. She could sometimes be unruly in her play, but she has never struck out against someone.

With curls of spun gold, skin a tawny beige, and round eyes the color of spring, she was more like a doll than human. Her cheeks were soft and her voice was light and airy. She was a kind child… so the thought of her being someone that end the world was strange. 

Or course, that didn’t stop the thoughts of possibility.

“Why don’t we play inside today, Phi,” he mother tells her one day. Phinara, even in her twelfth year, knows her mother is trying to protect her. It’s only been a little over a year since the prophecy was revealed, and things are very different. 

She’s heard the muted whispers, felt the wary and fearful eyes following her through the village. They scurry away from her whenever she stops and looks at them, as though she was capable of killing them with just a look. Even her friends have been playing with her less and less.

It isn’t until Phinara’s fourteenth year that she truly understands the fate she’s been handed.

By this time, her friends have abandoned her thanks to their parents warning them away. If they don’t ignore her, or run away in fright, they pick on her and call her names as they laugh.

Monster. Freak.

They seem overly fond of these two.

And then, they take it further.

Phinara can feel the blood running down the side of her head, and the stinging pain from the rock one of them threw. She runs home with tear running down her face, from both physical and emotional pain, nearly tripping as she bursts through the door.

“M-Mom,” she cries. As her arms circle around her mother, Phinara feels a slight flinch. It’s a little thing, something that could’ve been explained away as a simple startle. But Phinara knows it’s deeper than that. 

Her mother has been slowly pulling away from her. The soft whispers of reassurances have dwindled along with her once warm hugs.

“What happened?” her mother asks as she cups her face, worry pinching her thin lips. Phinara wants to erase the feeling welling inside, but knows she can’t.

So… she pretends.

She pretends it doesn’t crush her soul to see her mother flinch at her touch.

She pretends it doesn’t hurt to see her friends pick on her.

She pretends her father doesn’t look at her like she’s the devil and that her sister doesn’t look at her in fear.

She pretends that her life isn’t spiraling.

She pretends that fate isn’t cruel enough to condemn her to a life of pain and abandonment.

As the years pass and Phinara’s twentieth years approaches, the fear is no longer hidden. The crops are dying, game is becoming harder to find, winters are getting longer, and summers are getting hotter. Everything is hurtling towards destruction and fingers point to Phinara as the cause. 

Anger and hatred join hands with the fear. Every time Phinara goes outside, they point and spit at her. Rocks and curses are thrown with frightening accuracy. 

By her nineteenth year, her family finally drops the facade.

Her gentle mother, who once held her with love, now pretends she doesn’t exist. Her once kind father has become a ruthless monster who believes he could beat the evil out of her. And her sweet sister, who once followed her like a puppy, joins in with the villagers in their curses.

“What’s wrong, child,” a familiar voice asks from behind. Phinara turns, a genuine smile stretching her dry lips as she looks into kind eyes the color a clear blue sky.

Flora is a lonely old woman. She lost her family during a terrible storm before Phinara was born. And she’s been recluse ever since. Many of the villagers thinks she’s strange, but Phinara loves her. Flora has treated her with kindness for many years—made her believe she could escape the fate bestowed upon her.

“Just a bit worried,” Phinara tells her. There’s less than a week before the foretold time. Everyone is becoming tenser each day, and even more unpredictable. Phinara has to watch over her shoulders nearly every minute.

“I don’t want the prophecy to come true.”

Flora cups her face, her wrinkled hand a welcome and comforting feeling. “Why don’t you come over on your name day? We’ll spend it together.”

Phinara looks at Flora in shock before smiling. Happiness fills her as she nods. “I would love yo.”

The next few days are full of rising hostility as winter truly sets in. Phinara tries her best to ignore them, but each curse, each stone is cutting. There’s mania pushing everyone to their limits.

Phinara sits in her small hut tries her best not to leave the small hut she’d been pushed into unless necessary. The cold seeps through the thin blanket, assaulting her skin with painful pinpricks. She thought she’d be used to this by now, having been living her since last winter. 

Before her family officially abandoned her, Phinara had spent long hours in the hut. It was the only place where she didn’t have to feel the stares, hear the whispers, or watch her back. Tucked away behind the house and partially in the forest, it was a safe haven. Her family had barely noticed when she moved all her stuff in.

And even with the cold, she would rather be here than in that house. That had barely even noticed when she’d left anyway.

The second the light hits her through the frosted window on her twentieth name day, Phinara makes her way to Flora’s. She hasn’t seen her these last few days, so she’s a bit worried for her only friend. They usually see each other every other day at least, even if only in passing. And Phinara’s been so sick with nerves over today.

As she walks along the path to Flora’s cottage, the smell of smoke enters her nose just before the cracking of burning wood fills her ears. She looks up to see black smoke trailing up into the air.

Fear fills Phinara as she runs the rest of the way, praying that Flora is okay. But as she arrives and sees the cottage, collapsed and engulfed in flames, something tells her she’s not. 

She desperately looks around for that gentle smile, but she knows she won’t see it. Flora never wakes before midday. There have been many times over the years that Phinara has come here and tried to wake her. Not even the thudding boom of thunder could wake her. 

A deep, dark pit opens beneath Phinara as the realization of how utterly alone she is hits her. The only reason she had held it together is now gone forever. Flora was a bright light that soothed Phinara’s soul and filled her with a small spark of hope.

That hope now fizzles out.

Movement to her left captures her attention. Maybe this one time, she woke up early. Maybe she’s not gone. Maybe everything will be okay. The thoughts build as she feels the tingles of her hope trying to spark again. But it withers away into the wind as she sees the villagers coming out of the trees. 

They stare at the fire with cold detachment. Instead of grief or sadness at a member of the community dying, they turn to her with condemnation and accusation. Their eyes are bright with them. And then she hears the whispers.

…this is the demon’s fault… Flora should’ve never gotten involved with that devil spawn… she’ll come for use next… serves her right for showing that thing any kindness.

Phinara can feel each word like a knife cutting away at her soul. She stands and walks towards them, trying to ignore their flinching as they back away. “I didn’t do this,” she tells them, but her words fall on deaf ears.

“Stay away, monster,” someone shouts, before throwing a rock at her.

Phinara holds her arms up, trying in vain to protect herself as more rocks are thrown. Through the cruel shouts, she can distinguish her father’s voice and watches as he joins the others in throwing rocks.

She can feel her grief and pain rising with each rock that cuts into her skin. And her heart bleeds as she spots the small girl beside her father.

Her sister.

Pheera snarls in disgust as she throws rocks as well, spitting out curses. There is nothing of the little girl who used to follow her around.

Sudden hot pain against her back startles Phinara, pushing a loud cry through her lips. She turns to see her mother holding a flaming piece of wood. Her usually light green eyes, like summer leaves, are dark with fear and hate. 

“Monster,” she spits out.

And that is the final straw.

Suddenly, the air screams.

Everyone covers their ears as they drop to the ground… all except Phinara. To her, the air is whispering a sweet melody. The sky is shifting from the muted blue of morning to a blood red.

Phinara ignores the fear-filled villagers as the words of the prophet ring in the air.

By the twentieth year of Phinara Brieth, this world will be plunged into chaos by her scarred hands. Through her pain, wrought with misfortune by hands close, the sky will redden, the seas will burn, the air will wail in agony, and the ground will split to swallow all in endless darkness. When she is low, skin burned, fate will give her a choice: save the world or let chaos consume it.

Phinara looks around at the people she once knew, at the ones who abandoned her, cursed at her, hurt her. With each set of eyes she locks gaze with, her pain builds. 

She looks to the fire as the ground shakes, saying a final goodbye to her only friend…

And then, she unleashes chaos… as was her fate.