The Curse of the Warrior
Upon first entering, his gaze was directed towards the sunlit glades. It looked so beautiful and so peaceful. But no, he could not go there yet. He had not come to grips with himself yet, had not come to peace with the warrior within him. He directed his pace to the Dark Forest. There, there would be peace and rest. But that was not to be.
As soon as he sat down, he was bombarded by memories. For the first time, he could recall his passage into the living world. He recalled screams and cries in the night, darkness over him, sand on his face. His father, the day his father Luke left. How he had stood there for so long, both tiny arms waving that heavy sword aloft in a warrior's salute, his gaze on the ship sailing far, so far away, gazing after it even after he could no longer see it.
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
He recalled being captured, Windred's death. He remembered escaping from Marshank, the battle, and the season's lonely wandering that followed, and friends left behind in the world of the living.
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
He remembered the badger. How Boar had presented him with a sword, that sword made out of a falling star. How he had looked into its blade and seen the past that had been and the future that would be. Gallant hares, noble badgers, and heroic-looking mice, squirrels, and even an otter that wielded his sword; he had seen all in its blade.
Suddenly, whispers formed in his ears. The tauntings of the slavedrivers. The deadly arc of a silver knife singing a song of death and misery; the crimson flash of blood; the thud of a body fallen to the ground, life forced from it. The weight of dragging chains, the heart-rending snap of old metal breaking. Cries of friends, begging to be saved from the slavedrivers, corsairs, and vermin soldiers. Death, war, famine, cruelty, fires. Shadows pressed ominously upon his vision, a stoat and wildcat, backed by other figures; a rat with long, whip-like tail; a fox masked with harlequin colors, motley scarlet and midnight; a silvery-gray fox that seemed to meld into shadows, a deadly axe clutched in one sinister paw; a six-clawed ferret with painted face, and many others. Badrang, who had enslaved him, stolen his father's sword from him; he, Tsarmina, both had killed those he loved. Both, all had done evil, and now were coming back to haunt their killer. They continually taunted him until their shouts rang in his ears.
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
Others cried out, or died soundlessly, all at the doings of his enemies. No! he cried out. NO!!!!
The visions disappeared. He rocked his head back and forth. They died, he thought. They all died. And what for?
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
Martin caught himself; he had been wandering all over the forest, tormented by memories. Now, he kneeled at a dark pool. He drank deeply, then stopped. That mouse…looked strangely familiar. Martin raised a hand and ran it lightly over his features, as he realized with a jolt that he was looking at himself.
But no! That could not be him! His face was worn, battle-hardened, and chiseled by sorrow and anger, whereas this one was of one who has seen happy days, lived with peace of mind, known laughter. But, yet…
Yes, those were his ears, and the curve of a brow, and the set of the chin. There he was, in that calm pool, a face that had known happiness.
He remembered! He remembered a wizened face, loving arms that had held him gently, soothed slavery's tears from his face even when those same tears were stinging the backs of her own eyes. He remembered, for the first time clearly, his father, always distant, but still with his own kind of silent love for his only son. He remembered friends, older than him, yet playing with him, first out of pity, then out of simple friendship. He remembered a face, gentle and beautiful, radiating warmth and love, singing softly of the moon, stars, and clear mountain streams. Sayna. His mother.
Yet he couldn't hold on to these memories. The warrior inside wouldn't let him. As he grasped for them, they only seemed to fly farther and farther away from him.
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
Martin pulled himself upright on his knees. He screamed, a long, anguished, bitter scream, born of suffering and pain. He collapsed, gazing into that pool, which had suddenly become rippled, scattering his reflection back and forth, turning that bright, happy image into a broken shape. He lay there, gazing at the pool, wanting more than anything to have it all just end.
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
Martin stared at the pool. No, he thought. No, I don't want to go through all this. I want peace, I want rest. I just want it all to end. I don't want to be a warrior.
Suddenly, the water calmed. His reflection, that face, strange but also familiar in the same breath, began to change…the image smiled and seemed to grow in clarity, the focus increasing…
"You will find me at Noonvale,
On the side of a hill…"
He thought he could hear singing, a sound that was strangely familiar. A sound that would move the coldest stone heart of granite, would melt the coldest glaciers of implacable ice. A sound that would make all nature, springtime in her blossom, even the very angels in heaven weep. He looked up slowly.
"When the summer is peaceful and high…
Where streamlets meander the valley is still,
'Neath the blue of a calm cloudless sky…"
"Rose?" he asked hesitantly, not daring to believe it was true, but yet hoping, fervently hoping…
"Look for me at dawning,
When the earth is asleep…"
She was there, in the sunlit glades. Her graceful form shone with a pale, delicate ivory aura. She stopped. Then, she started singing again.
"Rose!" Martin raced towards her, only to find that with each step he took, she came farther and farther away from him, as the bounds of Dark Forest grew larger and larger. He developed a fantastic ache in his side, much like the worst stitches that mortals developed when they ran too hard and fast, only magnified by ten. He doubled over and collapsed, his face splashing in that shadowy pond as he realized that it was all an illusion.
"'Till each dewdrop is kissed by the day…
'Neath the rowan and alder, a vigil I'll keep
Every moment that you are away…"
He could still see her, more beautiful than ever. Yet, this only gave him more pain. He was here, and she was there. They were separated, as they had been for so long, so many long seasons. Martin knelt. There she was, right before him, singing.
"The earth gently turns as the seasons change slowly,
All the flowers and leaves born to wane…"
"Rose!" Martin raced towards her, only to find that she faded away from him, and that heavenly voice along with her. Why? She had been ripped away from him twice, now.
No, he had left her. He had cruelly left her to the mercy of Fate and Dark Forest.
He had left all those things. Why? Why had he left the ones he loved? Not of his own free will. Then what in the world had possessed him to leave happiness, desert those he loved for a life of pain?
He remembered the trill of a reed flute, talk, and laughter. He recalled brightness, birdsong, the smell of midsummer's morn and the sound of infants playing happily at their little games. He saw a great redstone building, rising above soft dawn mists, the sunrise glowing on rose-colored walls that guarded a peaceful haven. He smelled good food cooking, bread baking, and the lush scent of warm, sun-ripe fruit. He heard the lazy splash of the pond and lusty singing. Redwall.
He had found peace there, yet it hadn't lasted. He could not escape the warrior within him. Like a determined hound on the scent, it trailed him ever.
The warrior, the warrior, this is the curse of the warrior.
Martin gazed up, up at the canopy of Dark Forest. Where in a normal forest there would have been leaves, here there were only shadows of. They rustled, almost seeming to speak. Martin closed his eyes. The words, spoken by ghosts of leaves and wisdom past, echoed in his ears:
"Do not forget your past. Remember your pain. It teaches you how to learn, to live, to love. But do not live it either."
Deep humility, one that he had never known as a warrior, suddenly overcame him. He bowed his head. A single tear fell, splashed in the shadowy pool and mingled with other drops. The image rippled.
Something gave way within Martin. A sound, as of shattering glass sounded all throughout his ears, an invisible barrier bursting forth. His ears roared, as an invisible, intangible something rushed away. Yet even amongst the deafening din, he could hear a whisper, fleeing, sounding in his ears for the last time.
The warrior…the warrior…this is the curse of the warrior.
When he opened his eyes, the memories were there, but they were dimmed, and not so clear. He felt light, and free, oh so free. Then, to his amazement, he started floating. He drifted out of the Dark Forest, and glided across to join her.
"Hear my song o'er the lea like the wind soft and lowly…"
By now, she was clearly visible. She was beautiful, just as he remembered her.
"Oh, please come back to Noonvale again…"
A dawn-tinted gown fluttered around her as she still glowed with that creamy-white light. She smiled at him. He sighed, the remnants of pain slowly dissolving away.
"Rose," he breathed
They melted into each other's arms.
Finally, they were together.
For eternity.