The Warrior's Quest Defined

“So, Warrior. What has the unrelenting voice of truth told you
about your quest?”
What quest has e’er begun and ended
Likewise?
Pondered the warrior.

He watched the flames spread wide,
now die to a caressing blue.
“Days I spent seeking apprenticeship
To some great warrior,”
His voice went gliding
Through a trance-like view of many days
In rapid succession.
“And, I have put myself some distance
From that search: a choice
For something nobler,
or so I thought.
How is it I only now see
I have been apprenticed—
All along
--to you!
You! Are you not
the least of this house?
You who seemingly cooks for that cockatrice
Perched like a puppet
On a dragon’s throne—
Yet do you not here before me
burn up his expectations?
All I know to say now is this:
What do you make of my quest?”

Then the ancient eyes blinked hard once,
No longer rheumy, they suddenly glittered
Like twin bows in a rain-washed sky;
And the old man smiled
--was it a wistful one?
T'is hard to say
Exactly what lay beneath
the fearsome knowing
Of that visage.

“This place is broken in pieces,”
Said the old man.
Breath-taking, thought the warrior,
To hear the voice of whispered nudges all these years
Transform to the voice of revelation.
“This palace has given its hand to desolation.
Look well, for the sight of these chambers will soon perish.
Even now, the storehouses are being ravaged.”
Then that rainbow gaze pierced the questing man.
“If I give you strength
To access the armory of my indignation,
How will you use my weaponry?
You must prepare for a challenge and a strain
If you should will to raise the weapons in my store.
Indeed, I see you may even yet expect
To wield a certain type of sword,
To kindle a certain type of fire
Answering to this city’s need.
But you’ll destroy no ostrich here,
Nor slay any jackals.
As for burning…”
The voice trailed off, revealing
a door still partially closed,
For the warrior’s partial knowledge,
Could trek no further into
The future’s stores.

“Then how shall I plead your cause?”
Cried the warrior, and his heart was undivided.
So the old man lifted his voice in strength once more,
And he said:
“Give honor to your Bride.
Give rest to the land.
Give strength to those made feeble.
For a power arrogantly bloated grows
Transparent, no longer hiding the injustice
writhing beneath its surface.”

But the man stumbled over the first command,
Hardly hearing those following.
“Honor to my bride?
She would chase that charlatan even to an eagle’s nest
If he so lured her, never believing
He took her there to hurl her out and merely
For sport alone.
Futile venture!
And so I am no match,
For even your first commission.”

The old man waited for the man to conclude his lament.
His strange eyes were on the rag he took up,
and so he wiped the soot from the flame-scoured pot
While he waited for the silence,
For the resignation that bespoke a new readiness in the warrior.
And when he lifted his voice again his words were simple--
his eyes remaining on his work,
On his work of slowly polishing now inside the pot.
“You are nevertheless the chosen man; he that I appoint
Over her.
Behold, she turns to flee him,
Even as fear and sorrow seize her.
The evil one has already turned on her elder sister
--cutting off her nose and ears.
So your love now sees how
He’ll surely turn on her as well, in time.
Alone,
She weeps with continual weeping.
She finds a small measure of balm for her sore heart
By working in her vegetable gardens.
She grows food for him and for his subjects,
Until she chooses to know little else anymore.
And yet, she longs for something.”

“And I should care for what this harlot longs?” spat the warrior.

“In truth, you should, for despite all your industry
she knows to long for the one thing you seem to blindly lack…
She longs for hope.”


The old man left the room,
but the warrior heard those final words
Echoing within him until the last of the fire’s embers
Ashed to grey.