Redemption

Day in and day out my horse carries me further down this wretched road. Both take me somewhere, but I never seem to get where I wish to be. My body’s weary, tired, and worn beyond belief. The ride alone has sapped me, then add to that the weight of my armor digging into my joints with every jarring stride the horse takes. And always, upon my back, is the weight of the sword resting there, waiting there. A constant reminder of my deeds and my name.  

I can’t really remember the exact day I left home, if that even ever happened, it feels like a dream. Regardless, I vaguely remember my parents sending me away. My mother a wreck, crying as the gate swung closed behind me. My father standing stoic next to her, still holding the bloody, cursed knife and, without a doubt, only watching to make sure I disappeared from his sight. One thing’s for certain, I definitely remember what I did. How could I ever forget?

Thump.

The road evolving into part of my punishment was unexpected. It’s the relentlessness of it, the constant day to day monotony it provides as a torture all its own. No matter what comes I keep riding through the weather and the seasons; always forward never back. At this point, finding my way back may be impossible, I’ve travelled too far, taken too many forks along the way. There’s so little I remember. A sin is a sin, but this road… this torture, seems merciless.

It’s bitter cold today, and I’m soaked through from the early morning rain that recently subsided. It’s miserable weather to be out in. Although, in a strange way, I find it refreshing. Refreshing because it washes me clean, rinses off the signs of my curse; my wound from that bloody knife. In a short time, it will reveal itself again, but currently it’s just a faint red rivulet flowing down my chest plate, onto the horse, and disappearing into the muddy ground beneath me. For now, the rain has left me clean and I deserve these moments from time to time. Another reason I like the rain, it hides the constant and unrelenting sound of my curse with the addition of a symphony of rhythmless thuds.

Thump.

Each day I look for a way to redeem myself, at least in my father’s eyes. Each day I search for the next person to help, the next family to save, or the next town to free from some unrelenting evil. I’ve killed ogres, rescued children, protected travelers, and there’s even a couple dragons I’ve left slayed along the way. When the task is done, every time, I climb back on my horse as people thank me, pay me, and bid me farewell. I appreciate the thanks, give away the money, and rarely look back as I head down this miserable road again looking for my next chance at saving myself.

It’s not really fair that I despise the road so much. After all, it has no say in the matter. It simply meanders in whatever direction someone wanted it to go. It’s not responsible for the mud puddles and holes that jar me. It’s not responsible for the weather that leaves it in such poor condition. All it does is wind forward through the landscape, over the hills, into the forests, and out across barren land. I’m the one that picks the fork to take. I’m the one that placed myself here.

Thump.

The days I hate the road most are the dry days. When the sun’s climbed high in the sky and an occasional breeze blowing off the flowers and grass catches me. Most people would enjoy the warmth and the light breeze to keep them cool. The breeze however lifts the dust off the road which cakes onto my chest plate where the blood always falls. And its partner, the sun, bakes it into a dried mess. The wound never ceases, never lets off, never lets me forget my sin.

My father is a smart man and a cruel man, my mother not strong enough to stand up against him. She let him do this, she let him send me out onto this road. Her participation was her lack of participation, just like the road, just an innocent bystander. Ultimately, it was all his doing. It’s him I blame, though I’m the one at fault.

Thump.

There it is again, a single drop of blood falling, sending the report to my ears, reminding me, antagonizing me, torturing me. The blood drips from the wound my father gave me, a cut to the cheek. He told me that a day may come when my deeds and actions might redeem my sins, undo my wrongs. If that happens the wound will minimize and eventually vanish. That’s the day I can turn around on this road and head home, if I even want to. That will be the day I’m free.

Countless selfish and heroic deeds I’ve done… countless. And from time to time I check my face, look at my reflection for a sign, for anything really, that the cut on my cheek has reduced in size or diminished in some way. He gave me the wound to reflect the self-centered deeds of my past. I haven’t checked in a while. No matter, it never seems to change.

Thump.

What greater deeds could I do to redeem myself? Still though, my curiosity will eventually get the best of me. I’ll be filling my water skin at a river and I’ll decide to remove the leathery mask that covers most of my face, hides my shame behind the stiff, blood-soaked shell. The mask is there so people don’t have to see the bleeding open wound directly. And in those moments when I choose to look, there’s always a dash of optimism and a paused breath. I’ll look hoping for the best. My hope is always ruined, my excitement replaced by shame.

People I meet along this road always ask about the blood. They ask if there’s anything they can do. They want to help. I’ve already tried paying the best healers to take it away, paid witches to remove the curse, but nothing has worked. Instead, I tell people it’s only a small wound, nothing to worry about, and then bid farewell and rejoin this damn road. I swear by now I’ve circled the world because there clearly is no end to it.

Thump.

That sword was the origin of everything. I coveted it from the moment I saw it. It drew me to it when its master fell in battle. Even though, at the moment, I had the chance to stop the attack on my brothers, I ran to the sword. I needed to feel it’s weight, I needed to swing the blade. Without the sword the battle would have likely been lost. I would have fallen like my brothers. It was with the sword I was able to defeat our enemy, saved our kingdom, but my father didn’t see it that way.

He cursed me for what I did. He cursed me while he mourned his two dead sons. Banishing his last son to the road; this damn road. I left with nothing except the horse that carries me still to this day, he’s been a great companion. When he sent me out, he even took from me my name, his name, and took from me the ability to recall who I was, and who my family is.

Thump

As an additional punishment he left me to bear what I chose over all else. It’s weight on my back a constant reminder of my failure down this never-ending road. The sword I chose over my brothers lives. My father understood my greed, he understood it and hated me for it. “A man can’t be a slave to his greed,” he said. “So, in return I will make you a slave to that sword.” That was when it happened, that’s when he cursed me, when he cut my cheek, when he gave me the wound, when he took my name, and then sent me out to find redemption. He wanted me to learn humility, to earn back my life… or my right to one.

The sword is part of me, like this road, it’s part of my punishment. I still feel an overwhelming pleasure when I get to draw it, when I get to use it. Leaving me with it might have been the wrong choice. I feel it owns me, it knows me, or maybe I’m still just in awe of its edge and weight. Either way, we travel the world as a team, ride down this lonely road together. When people ask me who I am, who they can thank for the deeds I’ve done for them…. I’m left with only one name I can give them, the name of the sword. All along this road I’m known by that name, and that name known for its deeds.

Thump.

The blood has started to coagulate again upon my metal chest plate. Once again, I’ll bear my bloody mark, the outward reflection of my shame. Every day on this road another person looks at me and questions who I am. And, inevitably, another person will learn who their savior is. Of course, the only name I can give them is the name of the sword I wield, the cursed blade I carry. The only name my father left me able to call myself. I am Brightblade.

Then, as I have many times before, I’m back upon my trusted mount. A few long miles later, I will become just another traveler along this endless road. Except… this traveler searches for redemption.