Deren couldn’t decide, and he hated his life for making him choose. If he joined the Golden Regiment, than he might have a shot at being named the First Rider, and legend said only a First Rider might lead the Last Charge against the unholy ones and on into Glory. On the other hand, if he didn’t join the Golden Regiment and become the First Rider etc., he knew he could go to the harvest celebration a fortnight from now, and at that time he had a better than average chance at kissing Edina, seeing as most other lads his age would be joining the Golden Regiment.
He had one problem, though, and that was his hair. It was blond, near the color of straw in fact, and the prophecy said with maddening specificity that the First Rider who would be chosen to lead the Last Charge etc. would be blond. Unfortunately Derran was the only blond his age, and everyone he knew, from his parents to the elders who taught him and the others how to ride, expected him to join the Golden Regiment. They spoke of it as a done thing, in fact. “My boy, one day First Rider,” his mother said proudly, every occasion she had to introduce him, and she found many occasions.
There was a catch, of course. To join the Golden Regiment, you had to prove yourself in battle. The easiest way to do that was a border raid. Deren’s father had spoken with the elders, and they’d spoken to other village elders, and they’d gotten together a party. Someone had even scrounged up a few trumpets. They were to set off that very night. After that, the path was set: do the raid, get some captives, join the Golden Regiment, become the First Rider, etc., etc., etc.
But now Deren sat on a rock, staring down at his sword. He didn’t want to ride to some gods-forsaken village out in the damn plains somewhere and drag off some poor fellow who didn’t even know his language and therefore couldn’t talk to him. What he wanted, more like who he wanted, was Edina. Edina you could talk to. You could do other things, but he hadn’t got that far yet. No one had, as far as he knew. But he couldn’t even get there if he was off riding on some raid so he could join the Golden Regiment to ride on another charge-
“Deren!” the elder who was leading the raiding party called. “Time to mount up!”
“Aye,” he said, with a sigh of deep resignation. With his hair he was doomed for it anyway. Might as well get on. “Where are we riding anyway?”
“Chergard,” they call it,” the elder said.
“Huzzah,” Deren said, trying not to sound bitter. Chergard didn’t sound nearly as nice as Edina, but what could you do? With a last shrug, he swung on to his horse and rode away.
This story was inspired by ‘s writing exercise, in more ways that one: I couldn’t help wondering what would it be like if one of the people attacking Karl’s village also thought of themselves as a Chosen One, and, well, this resulted.
Destiny beset upon him by passing generations. He did not want it. I really enjoyed this.