Kristina Wyatt's Writing Portfolio



July 13, 1978



            There was no moon to light the path. He followed it easily, moving silently through thick brush and fragrant masses of heather. He needed neither light nor sound to navigate this place, so engrained it was inside of him, this ancient land of his heart.


            She was buried here, just beyond the stand of conifers that once stood majestically, her grave marked now with a simple marble headstone. In the years since her death, he'd painstakingly kept the site trim and neat, brought her flowers at midnight on the night she was killed.


            This night was different somehow. He could feel it just as he could sense the summoning of power in the warm air . The Prophecy had foretold long ago that this night would come.


            "She who is born into darkness, of gold and cream and emerald; whose blood will unite a kingdom and heart will heal their king."


            He'd memorized that small piece of the Prophecy, held onto it in his thoughts for more centuries than he could recall. Sometimes held onto to it in the long loneliness of the night. Now, at last, she would be born this night, fulfilling the revelation, rekindling a love that had endured through three thousand years.


            He stood over her grave for the last time, and in his mind a baby cried.