Never Alone

Never Alone

I went out on a hunting trip, and I believe I shall not return from it alive. Don’t worry though, I won’t be alone. I will be surrounded by the ghosts of my past, the seared images of my heroic deeds, the innocent souls that fell beneath my blade. Oh, you probably would not call them innocent. You would call them enemy, foe, assailant, but you don’t know the truth.

How could you?

Even I was deceived. I was put on the warpath with cheers and blessings, praised for my willingness to lay my life on the line for the good of my country, to stop the savage invaders who were merciless and cunning. To defeat them I had to be twice that. But I did it for a good cause. I killed for justice, not for glory or greed. Or did I?

Certainly, in the combat, I was fighting to stay alive, but there are none that would deem such action as greedy. If self-preservation is a sign of greed, then we are all past-due on the taxation of that. No, I fought for my children, my wife, and my village back home. I fought for our way of life, for the lives of my comrades, and the lives of those who could not go. I went in their stead, and I was genuine in my desires.

But war does not care about you. It does not care about your feelings, your ambitions, your ideals. They all bend like a piece of hot metal under a blacksmith’s hammer. I was wielded as such a hammer by my superiors, my commanders and kings. They convinced me that I did it for others, that it was the last resort to be made.

I now know different.

I may have thought I killed for justice, but I did not. I killed for glory and greed. Not my own, but rather that of those that sent me. When I returned, I was praised for a week, or a month or maybe even a year, but those kings, they will be written about in antiquity. They are now surrounded by gold, pleasure, prestige and a legacy set in stone.

I am surrounded by the true and horrific reality.

And now I sit in front of a campfire, dressed raggedly for the snow and cold wind that blows through the dark forest. The flames leap into the sky, and a sensible man would feel their warm touch and lean closer. But I can’t. My mind is a sunless place. Heat has long since left the residence, and I have no use for it anyway. It was simply a mask for the pain.

The sun received that message loud and clear and departed hours ago. The moon and heavens above must have taken notice, for they never even made an appearance. I am alone, but not really. Yes, those ghostly apparitions often break the veil of the afterlife amidst my castle walls.

But there is a new presence this night.

A dark figure looms across the flames, its cape cloaked in midnight, an ever-flowing and seamless shape grabs every last ounce of wind. Its rippling harmonizes with the crackle of the fire. I don’t bother to unsheathe my sword. The figure’s shape is lost in the dark cloak, but its size is as large as my own. It towers and envelops the sides of the fire.

Then it tramples across burning logs and red-hot coals. The fire hisses as if being choked by this enigmatic spirit that is visiting me before my waking eyes. And for the first time this day, I feel something. The heat has left. The figure passes through the gasping flames, and they spiral out in a puff of smoke.

“What manner of trickery has my mind conceived now?” I say. I remain on the ground, but my hands are now on my hilt. “In all my time, you ghosts have never been but a mirage, but now you maim fire without harm.”

“Perhaps you truly have gone mad.” The voice is low, but oh so familiar. It is carved away, somewhere in my remembrance, but I cannot find its place.

“I went mad long ago. Leave me be.” I sink back against a log.

“Oh, I did not come here of my own volition. You have summoned me. If you truly wanted me gone, I would cease to exist.” The figure remains stoic, arms tucked beneath dark folds of cape.

“I do not recall such a summons,” I say, irritated. “I came here to be alone.”

“Yes. To be alone. To wallow in a misery-filled pit of regret and disillusionment. To seek out some other man to put the blame for your actions.”

I grit my teeth. Is this mysterious figure wrong? I would like to think so. The blame should certainly not lie at my own feet. I was a good soldier, seeking to do good for others. The figure seems to know my thoughts.

“Ah, yes, you simply followed orders. You sought out nothing for your own reputation.”

“I did not,” I hiss.

“Then what is this weight you carry? Why burden yourself with your noble actions? If you truly believed yourself you would not be here. You could truly be alone at times. But look around you!” It hisses.

And I do. Among the trees, behind the boulders of the woods, those golden eyes and dark shapes stand. I can see the silhouettes of shattered spears, broken shields, dismembered figures. My old enemies. My vanquished foes.

But they were never really vanquished. I brought them back with me. They are with me more in death than they ever were in life.

I am never alone.

The figure chuckles. “The mind fights as heartily as the body, but it also remembers. You will never escape those haunts. And you will never move on.”

I can feel my chest beating now, perhaps the first time I have felt some semblance of life in my bones for years. “I will. I have!” If I shout it loud enough it must be true.

The figure shakes its head. And then it smiles, revealing a row of white teeth, and its eyes come to life, glowing a fiery red that swims in the eye sockets. And all is revealed. It is not the body of a fallen foe.

It is my own corpse. The face is ashen, the body shriveled and burnt. Those yellow eyes I see so often in my ghostly apparitions are full of sorrow and fear. But these red eyes tell a different story. I see anger, hatred, a living, consuming flame.

I feel the heat as it washes over me. It becomes uncomfortably hot.

“What are you?” I asked hoarsely. My throat is tightening, my lips and mouth dry.

And I realize why I knew that voice. It was my own. Raspy and abandoned of all life and joy, but it is mine all the same. My mirrored image smiles shrewdly.

“I am why you came out here. Why you left your family while they slept. Why you made no mention of your departure to your castle. I am your reckoning. I have come to give you what we seek.” His lips curl like a wildcat. “I am your doom.”

I stumble backwards over the log, landing in the snow with a thud. I scramble to my feet, drawing my sword. “No!” I scream. The heat is overtaking me. “I will not give myself to you.”

“But you will give yourself over to them,” my dark self says. He points to the ghosts in the woods.

They have always remained at bay. They will pass at the end of corridors, wander out on the fortress walls or in the fields at night, gazing at me but never daring to set upon me. But there is something different about them tonight. There is no fear. They advance at a snail’s pace, arms outstretched in grotesque attempts at walking as they did in life.

I wave my sword. “You will not have me,” I say.

My dark self begins his approach at a steady pace, fingers linked in a comfortable pose as if walking by the river and admiring the weather. “Oh, come now. We both know that this is your own doing. I am simply fulfilling your wishes. Else you would cut me down. You know that this will never end. You will never be alone. Ironic that your departure from your family brings your ghosts closer than they could ever be in your abode.”

I am sweating now, the heat of those dancing flames consuming my body. I feel weak. My arms are shaking, my fingers numb and my eyes clouding with confusion and resentment. I hate that I went to war. I hate that I did those things. That I committed fell deeds at the behest of the true villains. These ghosts were no less innocent than I was in life. They were certainly guided in the same paths, taught the same things, and slaughtered with the same brand of justice on their hearts.

It is wrong that I should have slain so many, that I returned to my sons and daughters and wife, while they were never released from my grip, even in death. I have put them on a spinning wheel of perpetual misery until the day I end myself.

“Do you think you deserve your life more than they did? That you should be able to be among your loving family while they will never see anything of their own ever again? They must watch you live the life they never received.” My dark self steps over the log, now just out of my blade’s length.

I can smell the ash and fire, the stench of burning flesh on him now. The ghosts have stepped fully out of the woods now. As they close in their eyes shine brighter and brighter, wrapping me in a cloud of white light. I cannot not escape it. I will never escape it.

“If you end this now, you will not just end it for yourself. You will receive what you deserve, yes, but you will set them free. They will see their familes again, if only through the veil of death. Do they not deserve that? Do you deserve your life more than them?”

I choke. My throat is dry, but my eyes are beginning to well with tears. He is right. I can barely breathe. Ash is floating in the air now, steam rising from the bodies that encircle me.

“Forgive me,” I whisper. I cannot speak. I can barely see or stand.

Is this what they saw at the end? Did they feel their own life abandoning their bones? If this is what I had put them through, it is only fitting that I must do the same. My arm is too weak to hold the sword up. My arms drop to my side as my legs quiver and I crumble to my knees.

My dark self is to me now. His spindly finger lifts my chin to meet his effervescent stare. I can feel the rage in his eyes, the mockery and disgust at what and who I am. He gently nods, as a parent giving acceptance to a child. He is ready. And I nearly am too.

And that is when I hear another voice, out among the trees, floating like a songbird, true and clear. I know that sound as well. I would know my son’s voice anywhere. It is free of remorse or anger. But it is in distress. It is still strong, but there is a shaky undertone, one that signifies unsurety and fear.

That stirs my heart within me again. That is the voice I fought for. To let my children grow in peace, that their voices may never know such anguish as my own. I do not deserve them, or my life to carry on.

“It is better that he does not see this,” my dark self says. There is a sort of compassion in his voice, but his eyes betray him.

“It is indeed. And it is better that he never sees such ghosts as I do. Such evil personifications and dreadful nightmares.”

I drop my sword. With what strength I do still have, I bury my hands in the cold snow. I take a deep breath, pulling in the frigid but clear night air. I push off the ground with a scream so taut my voice rips like a breaking string. I rise to my feet and thrust my hands to the night sky, soaking in the light as my eyes close.

I can feel the ash falling on my face, feel the warmth wrap its arms around me and refuse to let go. But I do not burst into flames, nor do I melt into a puddle. At last, I open my eyes. The light is gone. There is only the dark sky and the trees swaying and creaking. I look down, and where I fear I may see those burning eyes, I see my son, his arms around me like a vice. I can feel his chest heaving and the warmth of his body.

He looks up with his bright blue eyes. “Dad, what happened? Why are you out here all alone?”

I survey the tree line, but it is as dark as the night sky. I look back down upon him, a smile spreading across my face. “I’m never alone, son.”

He squeezes me tighter than I thought was possible before. “That’s right. And you never will be.”

I fight back the tears that threaten to rise up in my eyes once more. There is a welling of emotion in my chest that has yet to be adequately recorded by words, when I see my children. If he were one hundred years old, or one hundred days as before, I will never hesitate to do what is necessary. There is a clarity that comes in their presence, one that relinquishes me of ideals or principles, and removes all time and room for doubt or second-guessing.

So, I will live with these ghosts. They will haunt my sleeping and waking, surround my castle and hunt me down when I take to the road, but I must fend them off. I will wrestle with ghosts for the rest of my days, even joust with my own darker self, if it means that my children will never even know the meaning of the word ghost.

And one way or another, I will never be alone.