The Arrow

Artwork by Anato Finnstark

You stand at the edge of the Barrow Garden, watching the autumn leaves fall off of their slumbering parents, then coast gently to the ground. They cover the long path ahead of you, stone stairs ascending up and over the hill, into oasis.
"Don't be afraid," the gate keeper says. Her auburn hair nearly blends into the background, but her blue tunic gives her away, set against one of the guardian statues on either side of the stair. "You'll see it coming. It will be an arrow."
You nod uncertainly. She smiles, and gestures up the path.
Each step is agony. Past the guardian statues. Past the last mortal you may ever see. Through the red trees that line the edge of the world. As you crest the hill that leads to the Barrow Garden, you spot a man in the center of the path. He wears all blue, like the gate keeper, but his hair is a crown of fire, and his eyes are empty. You feel your heart skip several beats as he lets go of the bowstring he was holding. An arrow cuts the wind back down the path, headed straight for you.
Your stance firms. Your palm rotates around your elbow, years of lessons telling your muscles to move. You feel the arrowhead slip between your fingers.
Then the beginning of the shaft. Your fist tightens.
Another inch, as your skin tears from the rubbing of the wood.
Feathers.
You're not supposed to feel the feathers.
Looking down, you see the arrow protruding from your chest. You hear yourself take a shuddering breath, and the crunching of gravel as you fall onto your back. The gate keeper hovers over you, frowning.
"Not ready," she says. "Next time."
You stand at the edge of the Barrow Garden, watching the autumn leaves fall off of their slumbering parents, then coast gently to the ground.

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Ruin. Fate. Death.
The Arrow comes for you.