Runaway Hero and the Swordsman

As I leave the capital, I decide on my final destination. I’m already near the coast, so all that’s left is to find a boat and start sailing. I know where the continent stretches farthest out into the ocean, and so my goal is set. After the capital, I need no further stops or delays. I can leave everything behind soon.

I unclasp my cloak and hold it up towards the sky. I decide to burn it away. The fire starts at the ends of the cloak, and slowly works its way up. The cloak falls apart and turns to ash, like the lives of fallen soldiers. I suppose this is a memorial to myself. The wind carries the ashes of my manner of life away from me, spreading them around elsewhere. I won’t hide anymore. I can’t hide anymore. I am the Hero and I am a traitor. If people hate me then I’ll let them. I won’t run away from it any longer.

When the last of the cloak burns up and leaves my hands, I continue on my way. The plains surrounding the capital are as lovely as they always were, even in the face of our doom. The flowers still bloom and the grass still grows and the sun still shines down on them. And that will all continue even after us.

I look out at the plains as I walk, as though I were thinking about the future in such a beautiful way, but in actuality I was just entranced. I don’t know why. I don’t know what made me care so much more for these flowers. Their beauty feels so much greater now than the impression of them in my memory, but I don’t believe them to be any different. I’m so entranced that I lose sight of the life around me. The flowers, the beasts, the humans, they all blur together formlessly, as though there are no distinctions. It’s been a long time since I last lost focus on the pulse of life. I’m shocked when I hear a voice from in front of me.

“Boy, I see that you carry a sword. Are you a swordsman?”

I snap back into focus and place a hand on the hilt of my blade. The man before me is incredibly old, and with a single curved blade hanging loosely from his waist. Deep creases cut across his face, his head topped with gray hair light beneath the sun, and eyes containing an unfathomable pool of wisdom. From his style of dress, I assume he is a survivor from one of the eastern kingdoms, which were among the first the Demon King conquered. He’s so old he might’ve been swinging the sword even when the Demon King first appeared.

“I’m not a swordsman. I only fight for the sake of protection.”

“I see. That’s a shame. Are there any strong swordsmen in that city behind you?”

“In the capital? No, not at all.” Any strong swordsman has long been dead, having been sent to the frontlines by the order of the king.

“Truly a shame. Would it be alright if I joined you for a spell?”

I nod and we begin to walk. For how old he is, he still walks quite fast. He’s spry, so he must still be strong. We walk in near silence. The only words between us are the rare interaction of when he spots a bird or a flower that draws his attention. When night falls I set up a camp. Although it’s long gone unused now, and I believed it would never be used again, I always carry a spare tent. We sit at the fire and he cooks a simple meal for me. When we finish eating, I decide to question him.

“Sir, why are you looking for swordsmen?” He makes a sound as he ponders how to respond.

“Well, the answer to that lies in my life story, so if you’re okay with that…” I nod at him and he continues. “Then let me begin. This may be hard for one as young as you to picture, but I was born and raised before the advent of the Demon King and his army. My father was once a swordmaster, and he raised me to be the heir of my family’s technique. But then, just as I became an adult, we were overrun. I escaped with nothing but my sword, and I’ve spent my life afterwards doing nothing but training. It made me feel connected to my home, you see. But now I’ve grown old, and my strength has begun to wane. Everyday I grow a little bit weaker. And so I’ve been looking for a swordsman skillful enough to best me, so I can end my life in battle rather than watching my body wither away.” I respond quietly without thinking.

“‘Now kill me, and my strength will be complete…’” I don’t know why I’ve remembered that. I never would have when I was the Hero. The old man seems to have heard me, and laughs softly.

“I suppose that’s one way of seeing it. But I prefer to see it a little differently. You see, I haven’t seen another of my countrymen wielding the blade as in our tradition in a long time. Even when I tried to teach it to the people of this kingdom, it became something wholly different with only echoes of my own skill. As far as I know, I am the last one of us. I am the one who bears all our legacy. To let the legacy of our strength and skill die weak and withered in bed would be a shame. If I can let our legacy rest on the battlefield then I’ll know it will have a dignified and honorable end.” I again respond without thinking.

“What sort of honor can you get from killing and dying?” The old man corrects me kindly.

“It’s not about killing and dying. It’s about the clashing of two lives. The sword is our way of life. And it’s only in battle that we can find its beauty.”

“Beauty? All there is is success and failure.”

“You can’t see the beauty in that? It’s not simply correct and incorrect. With every step we take, with every clash of our blades, we hammer away the imperfections. We temper our souls in much the same way the smith tempered our blades. Every failure gives way to success. My soul is tempered enough now. But I’ll lose it if I wait around. And my blade will lose its edge. I am alone in my legacy, and so I need to find a worthy place for its journey to end.”

So we’re searching for the same thing. Searching for a place to die.

The next morning, we both awoke before dawn. I approach the old man and draw my sword.

“I’m quite strong. Fight me.”

He smiles and stands to face me. At the first light of dawn he begins to draw his blade out from his sheathe. However, I lose track of it. Despite being the Hero, despite being the strongest, I can’t see anything. The beauty of his swing is invisible. It’s not the sword but something deeper. The next I see of his blade, the shattered pieces are flying up around me, catching the morning light. He smiles at me and drops the remains of his sword.

“Now go ahead and kill me. And tell me your name. Let this legacy rest with dignity.”

“I… My name is Alan… I… I am the Hero. I do not kill. I don’t want to hurt anyone. That beauty was so much more than just the sword. It really was the weight of your life. So please keep living beautifully. I’m sure it won’t be shameful, even if you wither away.” The old man laughs loudly.

“Then it looks like I still have a lot of tempering to do!”

He turns away and begins to walk down the road to the capital. I stand there for a moment and watch his back. Then I gather up the campsite and continue on my way. And all I can do is wonder how much beauty my own life will have at the end.