Reflections

The fight has ended but the warrior trudges on.

        East of the Southern Lowlands lies a great forest of ash and oak. Late into the night, the moon shines full. A faint light filters through the leaves, softly illuminating the woodland floor. There walks a man by himself. He walks slowly and with the sole purpose of going forward, occasionally stammering his steps. He is an old man with grayed head of hair and full gray beard. The man is tall and stout. He walks with a large war hammer strapped to his back. The weapon is an impressive sight; smeared with blood the face is pitted and cracked, the rear spike broken. The man wears light leather armor; something not often seen strapped to a man wielding a heavy weapon. As he walks, the man leaves behind him a small trail of blood. Just under the breast, in the center of the gut, the armor has been pierced, leaving a large hole; it goes deep. The leather is stained a deep red as the blood makes it’s way from the wound, down the armor, and onto the ground. The man slowly keeps walking until he comes to a clearing deep in the forest.

          The clearing is small but beautiful. Large oak trees circle and stop at a rock wall, from which a waterfall softly flows down the staggered boulders and empties into a shallow pool. The pool bottlenecks into a small stream before winding back into the forest. The ground is covered with soft grass and clovers. The whole scene is covered in the soft, calming light from the moon, now directly above. The man had seen sights comparable to his scene before in his life but never had he taken the time to appreciate as he did here. The clearing was a wish granted to his tired body.

          The man walked to over to one of the trees and began to take off his armor. First he took off his bracers, then his greaves and lastly he slowly took off the breastplate. Each movement was labored and painful. He walked into the pool up to his waist, slowly knelt down, submerging his body in the cool water. The man washed the dried blood and attempted to clean the large wound in his gut. The water now tinted red, his bare torso now visible in the moonlight. His skin was thick and rough. He had only a few scars but they were large and deep. His face was haggard and wrinkled. He was battle-worn. He waded through the pool to the fall. He leaned forward and drank deeply. Stepping out of the water, the man made his way to the base of a tree covered in moss and carefully sat down; painfully aware of every movement his body made.

          As the man sat at the bass of the tree he looked up at the moon and thought of his life; how as a young boy a peacefully lived in a village with his family. As an adolescent, he set out on his own not knowing anything about the world he would venture through. As a man he lived for the thrill of battle; killing many man and beast, most in the name of honor and justice. His eyes lowered from the sky to his hands as he passed that thought. Did he really fight for any honorable purpose or was he just looking for an excuse to hone his brutal talents. But did the reasons really matter. He reflected and realized that if he was a hero or a villain at times, if his enemies were just or wicked, they were dead and he was alive. Now here he laid, underneath this tree with no one to answer to but himself, and he was at peace. He now once again turned his gaze to the moon above.

          He closed his eyes for what seemed like only moments. His breathing became shallow and he body grew weaker as he felt blood flow from the wound. He opened his eyes to once again gaze up at the night sky. The moon was no longer in view from the quiet grove but its soft light remained. Instead he saw the sky filled with stars; a sight he rarely had thought admire. As he looked out over the glistening pool he saw a creature standing before him, a spriggan. The child of the forest was typically hostile of any life that invaded its home but here it stood, calmly starring at the man. The body that looked to be made of branches and roots slowly made its way towards the man, he began to reflect on his life again. As a boy he would have seen the beast as something to be feared, as an adolescent he would have seen it as something worthy to test his skills against, and as an adult he would have destroyed the beast easily and without a second thought, but now he sees the creature through different eyes. He looks at it with wonder. He had never noticed how their glowing eyes seemed to house a soul. It looked at him inquisitively and he at it. Beasts and powerful foes that could present danger had always been something he killed without a second thought, but as he lay there, there was no thought of harming the creature in his mind.

          As the spriggan came closer, the man just watched as the scene unfolded before him. The creature stopped just in front of him and knelt down. It calmly stretched out its hand. The root-like fingers became pointed and slowly plunged into the large wound of the man. He quickly realized what was happening, but he did not have the strength or the will to fight the beast off. He could feel the long pointed fingers twisting through his abdomen, but there was no pain, he had lost that sense some time ago. He soon noticed his other senses start to fade. It felt as though the spriggan was draining the last of his strength like a tree root drinks up water. With the last bit of strength the man had left, he looked the creature in the eyes, smirked and said, “Well done beast. You have defeated Tobiah, Raging Bull of the Western Plains.” Tobiah then closed his eyes as his final breath left him.

Author's Note

This is my first attempt at writing and am open to any critiques.