Posted by Brian Sloan, Sep 17, 2014. 693 views. ID = 6750
This post was written in 77 minutes.
|I like mythology so this prompt instantly reminded me of Sigurd. Decided to play a scene out from his POV.|
"Dude dude dude dude, this is going to be HILARIOUS. This guy has no idea he's about to get played for the biggest fool in HISTORY."
"Cha, brah, this Regin guy is gonna spit Sigurd like the dragon heart he's roasting."
Birds. I am hearing birds. This can't be real.
"Like, imagine if he knew the magical properties of a dragon's heart, brah. This brah would be wicked smart if he ate it, brah."
"Too bad he has no idea, ha. Ha. Ha."
I rubbed my eyes and peered into the trees at two fat ravens, chattering behind me. Better safe than sorry, I supposed, sliding my sword nearer to me as Regin returned from the forest.
"Is the heart ready? The skalds will sing long of your deeds, Sigurd Volsung! I can see it now:
Sigurd marched through the forest dark
With his great sword by his side
With it he left a frightful mark
In old Fafnir's scaly hide
So deeply did it cut
The Volsung needed only two swings
So he stabbed it in the...
Well, something like that anyways." Regin laughed. "How comes the roast? Check it, see if it is done."
So I leaned in to take a look, but recalling the birds' words, I watched Regin's reflection in my shield. Distorted though it was, I saw him draw a dagger stealthily and approach me from behind, raising it as he did. Without warning I spun, sword in hand, and ran him through. His death was swift and silent.
After the betrayal, I found myself pondering the heart again. The birds had claimed it would give me great wisdom. And they had been right about one event so far; I figured it was a good idea to trust them.
Wrong. You would not believe how annoying it is to have to listen to these feathered fiends flap their beaks. They never shut up and it's never anything useful. Oh, there are worms two miles from this point? Great, just what I needed to know. And I can't talk back to them, so I have no way of pumping them for information. And hunting just isn't the same anymore when I have to listen to the falcons go on and on about how great they are and how much more "swole" they are than their brethren. Don't get me wrong--I'm grateful for the time the birds saved my life, but if that could have been the end of it, that would've been a swell trade.Copyright 2014 Brian Sloan. All rights reserved. FifteenMinutesOfFiction.com has been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work. For permission to reprint this item, please contact the author.
|This post is part of a writing prompt: Singing birds|
Search for Great Fiction
Use the google search bar below to find writings exclusively on this site.