I was really trying to work on my fantasy tonight. But I just finished reading Hart's Hope by OSC and it put my muse in the wrong kind of mood, so I wrote this instead. I think it's the start of a darkly humorous story making fun of the tendency towards prophecies and destinies in fantasy fiction, particularly when there's nothing particularly special about the person in the prophecy except for the fact he's being prophesied about! All I really care about right now is that I wrote 100+ words for the night. (417, in fact.)
In the summer of the three eagles, in the month when the sun was swallowed by the moon and emerged whole and undamaged, in the year that was prophesied long ago by a sharp-toothed hag who wore a necklace of bones, a child was born who was meant to lead the world out of the shadow of evil and restore peace to all the land. Unfortunately, that child died, so all the world is left with is me.
I was born in the spring of the rusting plow, in the month of the traveling vintners, when half the men in Erant, including my father, abandoned any hope of a decent harvest in favor of wild, unbridled romance. There was much wooing and swooning and ribald poetry in those days, I am told, and I am glad that I was not yet conceived and as such have no memory of it.
In any case, my father won the heart and hand of his most beloved. Reports differ as to how much wine was involved in the negotiations, but it must have been a substantial amount since my mother was a daughter of a noble house and my father was an inept and frankly lazy father. Sometimes I wonder what my maternal grandfather thought when he woke up the morning after signing the marriage contract. Probably something along the lines of, "how did I wind up with this truly awful headache?" And, "what is that terrible racket? It sounds like the whole town is laughing at something."
In fact the whole town was laughing at him, because he had made such a poor match for his daughter and because people love to laugh at the rich and powerful whenever they are given the chance. But my parents didn't care, or at least they will never admit that it bothered them. They lived in the little farmhouse on the farm where no crops were grown and no stock was raised, and they existed on my mother's dowry. My grandfather solved his own problem by becoming a very devoted "admirer of the spirits" and even though everybody still laughed at him he was usually too drunk to care. Most of the time he laughed along. One night he laughed a little too long and a little too hard and then my parents were able to start living on my mother's inheritance instead. Everybody in town thought this was wonderfully funny and insists that they have never attended a more cheerful funeral.