The Wayward Knight

The knight smacked his cracked lips against the frigid air, his brow furrowed at the tepid wind rattling his misshapen armor. Desolation surrounded him; remnants of what once was a rolling green field reduced to a barren, brown emptiness. Where once was life, only a still, haunting memory of brighter, happier days whispered its sorrows on the steady wind.

A broken road spun from beyond the horizon, twisting over and under the dipping hills. The knight had traveled said road in search of his treasure. Had endured blistering cold nights so intense, frost had covered his armor, and days so searingly hot, wearing it was near unbearable. His armor was protection, yet it was also his burden. A witch had cast a curse upon him, shackling the metal to his body. It was a second skin, now so familiar, the knight could not recall the last time he had looked at his own body. The armor was his body now, as far as he was concerned. And the only way to free himself, was…

The mountain ahead was foreboding. Beyond him, the path became a series of jutting, ruined steps traveling higher and higher into the gloomy heights of a mountain. A mountain whose peak was obscured by a dense fog. The knight’s eyes followed the steps, up, up, until they disappeared into that fog. A stairway to the unknown.

However, it was the same witch which had bound him to his armor, that had also propelled him on his journey. The knight had met the witch in his waywardness; when the days and nights had bled together for so long, it was as though life resembled less a book with defined pages – a beginning and end – and more a consuming fire. A fire intent on devouring every precious second, until the days whisking by no longer had value. In the end, all that was left over were embers – decaying remnants of life, heaping on top of one another.

That was, until the witch halted the knight in his tracks. He had been traveling a lonely road at twilight, when in the space of a blink, a hooded figure blocked his path. The golden hues of the sun did not reach the shadows spilling from the sides of her dark cloak, and her purple irises bore into the knight which such intensity, he could have sworn the world had gone silent, eagerly waiting for the woman to speak.

Her voice was the last leaf to fall from the tree. The final breath of man before closing their eyes for eternal sleep. Yet, also the beauty of a cresting full moon, and the lone wolf’s howl as it beholds its majesty.

“Heavy are the steps of the wayward knight. He travels from dusk till dawn, unaware of his own steps. Unaware of the world around him. Unaware, even of the depths of emptiness housed within his armor.”

The knight said nothing, but drew his sword. The blade’s unsheathing was an unceremonious thing – nothing more than a writer’s blunt tipped quill scratching lazily at an empty page.

“But I can sense that small hope within the husk. The fickle spark guttering in the abyss of your heart. The spark was once a dream. It blazed so brightly, it drove your feet along bolder paths, drove each strike of your sword as you cut down obstacles before you. Yet, here you are now, aimless wanderings dulling every sense until your armor, your sword, have become nothing more than lies you keep telling yourself.”

The knight raised his sword as though to charge. His blade caught the setting sun, it’s tip twinkling as though a diamond danced on its edge. Fury shook his arms; how could this witch vex him so easily? How were her words somehow sharp enough to pierce through his armor, all the way to the heart. Those things she uttered from her shadows…they couldn’t be true.

But then he realized it wasn’t righteous fury which shook his arms. No, it was his fatigued muscles from disuse. Those muscles which indeed had cut down obstacles before him, could probably no longer cut even a twig. He beheld his blade and suddenly felt shame. For what true knight could barely wield his own sword?

There was a dull thud. His sword, fallen from his hands and spearing the ground. No longer a glorious weapon, but now a grave marker. Here, lies the dreams of a knight.

“I speak no lies, knight,” the witch uttered. “I only appear to those who are lost. And to those I appear before, I offer a quest. Do you wish to reclaim your heart? Do you wish to reignite the spark within? Or will this be your final resting place? Your life, forfeit, even before your heart ceases to beat in your chest.”

The memory stirred in the knight’s chest as he stared into the unfathomable depths of the fog ahead. Indeed, he had taken on the witch’s quest for him. He had not expected her spell to entomb him in his own armor, nor for the quest thus far to be full of hardships. Yet, he had made it to the doorstep to his destiny – at the foot of a mountain whose name had long been lost.

He took a long, steadying breath, the movement causing groaning joints in his armor to moan their despair. Placed an idle hand on the hilt of his sword, savoring the faint familiarity there. And, hesitating for only a blink longer, began his ascent up the nameless mountain, his armor creaking dully in his wake.

The fog had become unnaturally dense. The knight tested it by waving his arm in a wide arc in front of him, finding it was less like walking through a fine mist, and more like wading through shallow waters. He had long since strayed from the initial path up the mountain; or it had simply ended. An ill omen for a wayward traveler like himself. But he pushed forward, navigating the increasingly rocky terrain, his grunts of effort muted by the peculiar fog.

“Your life, forfeit, even before your heart ceases to beat in your chest.”

The words tumbled through the air and all around him, as though the presence of the witch had surrounded him on all sides. Hand flying to the hilt of his sword, the knight spun on an outcropping of jagged rock, searching for the source. Had the witch secretly plotted to end his existence here on this damned mountain? Was this place going to be the culmination of his life – lost not only to his loved ones, but even to himself?

In a fit of rage, he drew his sword and swung at the air, cries of anguish ripping from his throat. But his blade only met errant fog, clouds of dense mist swirling tauntingly in the grey oblivion. Still, he swung, until his arms could swing no more. His body slumped to the rock, sword spearing a crack in the hard earth. His hands still clung loosely to the handle; his only brace for support in his weakened body.

What was his reason for being? What had driven him to become a knight all those years ago with hope and courage in his heart? He could not remember. There had been a time when arming himself with a sword had meant something. He had taken oaths. Made solemn vows. Yet, much like his dilapidated armor, they, too, had aged and become nothing. What once was a brilliant, shining purpose – a light in the night sky – had dimmed and expired. A candle flame, extinguished to nothing.

“Do you wish to reclaim your heart? Do you wish to reignite the spark within? Or will this be your final resting place?”

More words, spoken from the abyss. The knight blew out a breath and waited for his tormentor to reveal herself from the fog. Perhaps his sword would become the headstone for his grave after all. His final resting place, buried not by the earth, but by the very armor meant to protect him.

“Your quest to reclaim your heart has not ended, knight.” The witch’s voice was falling snow on the ground. Like a morning songbird, both gentle and bright. “Rise,” she said simply. An invitation. A challenge. Spoken, knowing the full weight of what it would cost.

Though his visor hid his face – a face that had not felt the sun’s warm embrace for ages – the knight went to wipe his shameful tears. Of course, he could not. Not with his hands encased in gloves and gauntlets, not with his visor concealing everything he felt from the world. But the knight had the uncanny feeling the witch could somehow see through it. See all the pain he felt.

“Rise,” she said again, her voice a trumpet. The sun, cracking the horizon after an endless night.

The knight steadied himself. Allowed himself to feel the tracks of tears staining his face, and decided there was no shame in them. How could there be shame in merely feeling the weight of one’s burdens? Yet, it was that same weight he must shake free. Despite all the pain, the loss, and regret threatening to consume him from within, he must still rise.

He gripped the handle of the sword. Tensed his weary muscles. And slowly…ever so slowly, with pain gripping every facet of his body, he began to rise.

A phantom wind began to rush from the very sword he held, its tip still embedded in the rock. It was a rallying cry. It was as though the weapon itself were cheering him on, applauding his effort to push against everything which held him down.

THUD.

His armor, at last, began falling away from his body. Inch by inch, he persisted. Piece by piece, the armor fell away. He screamed his effort, his sword vibrating in his hands. At last, he began to remember his oaths. His promises. Not only to himself, but to those he swore to protect.

“RISE!” The witch declared, outstretching her arms, her purple eyes blazing. Now, her voice was a ray of sunlight from beyond the horizon. It was the victorious cry of an eagle as it soared above the earth.

The knight rose to both of his feet, the last of his armor falling to the ground in a cascade of old, broken metal. Weight which would no longer burden him, finally cast aside. With one swift movement, he withdrew his sword from the ground and thrust it into the sky above him.

At the behest of the power pouring from the blade, the fog retreated, back, back, until he could see all the world stretched before him from the mountaintop. A calm wind replaced the dank misery of the unnamed mountain. The knight lowered his sword and breathed it in, grateful tears flowing from his eyes. He did not endeavor to wipe them; he let them flow.

He allowed all the world to see who he was.