The Forbidden Pool

In a thousand years not a person had spoken of the mysterious pool by its rightful name. In a thousand years not many people have dared to speak of the mysterious pool by its ill begotten name. In a thousand years none that walk the land upon two legs has gone unto the pool. And over these thousand years has the pool grown callous towards those it sees as the two legs. But the Forbidden Pool, sickling, is thine only hope.

Whirling in a pool of water, of time, of memories...

Whirling endlessly through darkness...

Whirling soundlessly in a world filled with the old, decrepit voice that filled his mind like a pounding headache.

Mikel cried out in his mind as though the words of the old witch had cast a spell upon him, thrusting him violently into sleep. Or beyond sleep into death.

But neither sleep nor death came to the poor soul, infected as he was to desire death

Instead it was a vision, a memory of the beginning, when he had stood firmly on a cobbled street. Sword in hand, a delicate but undecorated rapier, he faced the man whom had once been his friend and was now a rival for the love of Abigail. Drig flailed wildly with his broadsword, slicing wind alone, and leaving Mikel to open various wounds upon the larger man's body. Drig was no swordsman, not in any sense of the word, and Mikel had no desire to slaughter him in battle.

"End the fight, Drig," he called though it was soundless in the magical recollection.

The reply was a few soundless grunts of effort followed by breathless words. "Not until she is mine."

All watchers could see that Drig had no chance against the slightly renown Mikel, and all begged the man to put aside his blade and accept the defeat that would bring death otherwise. Those same watchers could see the look upon Abigail's beautiful face, her dark skin shining in the direct light of the sun. She smiled slightly, though tears ran from her eyes, and it was plain that she favored Mikel over Drig, very much so.

Finally the crowd saw the look upon Mikel's face change, and within two strokes he slashed open Drig's leg and disarmed him with a slash upon the back of the hand. The larger man fell, blood running from his leg like water from a fall.

"Surrender the rose of both our hearts to be mine alone," offered Mikel before the final bite of his sword could finish his once remembered friend.

No words of surrender were given, but Drig closed his eyes and nodded once before the anxious Mikel could finish him. The slender blade that was pointed towards his heart flashed harmlessly through the air as it returned to its sheath upon the man's hip. Instead of steel Mikel thrust a hand forward, and offered to aid his once friend to stand. The crowd was brought to raucous cheers as the two clasped as fellows once more.

The cheers changed almost instantly to hisses, boos and curses of the unfriendliest kind. Trying to turn Mikel's mercy into Mikel's death, Drig slashed wide the stomach of his defeater. The mass of people converged on the two, bent on mob justice for the strike, but they were not faster than Mikel. In a twinkling the sword was returned to his hand, and its point found the black heart of the dishonorable cur.

Leaving the sword like a pin in a pincushion Mikel tended to the wound he scarcely noticed.