the longing

The warrior stood, staring off into the distance. He stood in the middle of an empty valley, one lined with trees, snow, and the echoes of meaning now lost into the annals of history. The sky seemed bleak, the sun filtering through a haze of darkening clouds, a looming backdrop that made the goal all the more insurmountable. And yet still, the conflict was as inevitable as was the rise of a new day’s horizon.

His weapons were worn, chipped, and weathered from use, the evidence of past struggles and battles etching their fables across the tools of his victory. Yet still, he cradled them in each hand, the weight familiar, the grip understood, and the use understood. His clothes were worn, evidence of past travels leaving tears and marks in various places. And yet, he wore the same garments as when he first began his journey, wearing the stains upon himself with pride, as evidence of trials overcome.

Tales of the warrior were many, but sparse. Some said that they knew him. They knew his habits, they knew his tendencies. And yet, pressed for details, they found themselves at a loss to explain his most basic nature. Others simply knew of him. His name was familiar to many, either whispered on the lips of those who wished to exaggerate his adventures, or shouted with scorn after he had left to continue his journey. But always, there was a memory associated with any who recognized his name.

His name… His name was of the sort unforgettable. His name carried legend, carried myth, carried sorrow, carried strength. His name was dependable to those who knew him well, and yet perhaps this was his greatest struggle. For his was the nature of the guardian, always hoping to serve others, but not realizing that the relationship was often not mutual. Offering help, and receiving doubt and scorn in return.

The valley around him reflected to him the solitude of his nature. With the silence of the world surrounding him, birds did not sing, winds did not blow, and creatures made no movement. The echoes of meaning were no longer there, and in their place there was a deafening silence that served only to confirm his own realizations. He stood, facing this final challenge alone.

Those who would claim him as friends had long ago given up their contact. Those who would still claim him as friends felt just in openly mocking him. And why should they not? The warrior, his quiet nature intimidating to most, seemed to exude dispassion, encouraging those close to him to abandon him to his personal ambitions. Those around him were kept at an arm’s length, and they shared their enthusiasm in kind, simply walking in the other direction.

They saw not the pain in his eyes, or the sorrow in his heart. They felt not the ache in his mind, nor made any attempt to inquire of his inner helplessness. Instead, they saw only what they would allow their eyes to see, and felt that by seeing his appearance, they knew his heart. Wrong they were.

Billowing clouds continued to darken, casting their shadow across his stature, as he gazed into the darkness. His goal lay there, hidden in the trees, but real nonetheless, but still it was cast in shadow. As the rain looked about to fall, he continued his march, hoping that there, in the abyss that awaited him, answers may lay in wait. The struggle would be epic, and the battle nearly insurmountable, and yet he knew that there was no other way.

And so these weapons would be utilized for one last thrust, and though the outcome was uncertain, this much was sure.

He would march to the summit alone.