Young Writers Society

A Warrior Soul sat upon a hill, with only a tree to shelter him. His armor covered his being, but it looked as though one more fight would do him in. His armor had great gashes in it, torn asunder by the claws of the Beast he had been fighting these many years. The helmet had been halved, but the Warrior Soul still wore it as a reminder. What he needed to be reminded of, not even the Beast knew. The Warrior's sword laid in his lap, looking as though it would be of more use as a blunt tool than a sharp weapon.

The tree behind the Warrior Soul was the last of its kind. Its leaves were a light purple, and seemed to glimmer in the setting sun. Its fruits glowed, their light reflecting upon the remnants of the Warrior's helmet. For so long it had provided the Warrior with peace, even in the midst of struggle. Yet the leaves were falling around the Warrior, for the tree was dying. The last source of joy in these vast lands, nearly gone.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, as darkness settled upon the lands, the Warrior Soul stood. The movement seemed mechanical, a mere hint at how weak the Warrior had become over the many years. His sword pointed towards the ground. Only the tip was still as sharp as it was when it was first made.

A shadow ascended the hill before the Warrior, a gargantuan creature. It was formless, dangerous. It had taken many lives, and now it had set its eyes upon the Warrior Soul. Every night, the Beast had come to feast upon the Warrior's hope. A long time prior, the Warrior Soul had lost its first joy to Misery. What had once been a threat easily thwarted had become something more. Now, as the Warrior Soul watched the Beast approach, he was forced to look back upon the great many mistakes he had made. The fruits of the tree hung above him, the last thing he had to cling to in this world. Soon, they would be gone. He did not wish to see the day they fell.

The Beast stopped a distance away, letting out a growl. The growl did not convey malice. Long ago, the Beast had learned contempt. Each day it had grown stronger. It knew it was only a matter of time before it was victorious.

"Of all the souls I have dragged down, you have taken the longest to break."

The Warrior Soul did not respond, merely removing his helmet and setting it upon the ground before him. His eyes looked hollow, and carried many years of pain.

"Perhaps today is the day I drag you down. No more helping others. No more defending souls. Just the cold abyss!"

The Warrior Soul lifted his sword. Finally, after a long time of being placed against the ground, the blade went skyward.

"If you think that is so..." The Warrior said. "Then come at me, Beast."

As the Beast charged, the Warrior Soul once more visited the past. He saw the land beyond the hill as it once was. It had been teeming with people, each one a close friend. The Warrior had believed it to be his duty to protect them. Long ago, he had sent them all away, believing it was their only chance. He would not have them dragged down with him.

Years passed. Misery became a common occurrence. To live was a daily fight for survival.

Many think that a Warrior Soul is the strongest. The truth is rather the opposite. The Warrior Soul is the one to be shattered a great many times. The Warrior Soul is battered, bruised, beaten down daily. The Warrior Soul does not live in spite of pain. It does not live for itself. It is a martyr, willing to take on theBeasts of others.

That is why the Warrior Soul always loses when it is abandoned... For when the Warrior Soul takes on the Beasts of others, those Beasts turn against the Warrior.

And a Soul can only take on so much.

As the Beast charged, the Warrior's sword glinted in the light of the fruits above. It buried itself deep into the Beasts hide, and as the Beast died upon the blade, it heard the Warrior's final words.

"If I'm to die to the likes of you... Then you shall die to the likes of me."

The Beast collapsed, tearing the sword from the grasp of the Warrior. The Warrior stood for a moment, before slowly stumbling towards the tree. He collapsed against the trunk, his gaze traveling to the broken helmet upon the ground. When the hollow reminder became too much, he looked to the fruits of the tree. Each a pleasant memory. Each a better time. He would have reached up and grabbed one... but his limbs were weak, and a strange feeling of weight had gone over him. How cruel it was to have such joy within reach... yet always lacking the strength to reach out and grab it.

The Warrior Soul lamented its many failures as it died.