The end of Yearning

Amthir rubs his sweat-slick palms together as he bends, with great difficulty, to retrieve the helmet from a nearby bench. 

As it slides easily over his small head, he lifts his hands to adjust the eye holes, eyes wandering to the mirror parallel to him. 

 A silver, gem-encrusted plate inlaid with gold reads, ‘ALEXANDER’. 

He can hear the rumbling of an anxious crowd summoning him, begging for their savior to free them from their adversary, remembered bitterly by singed alleys and demolished homes.

The armor hangs heavy on his frail frame, grating against the cobblestone flooring with each taxing footstep.

He halts before the gate separating him from the end of his life as he knew it, taking a moment to acknowledge the familiar halls he may never see again. He appreciates, for the first time, the dusty and dark crevices. 

Amthir takes a deep, lung-trembling breath before raising a hand to the chilled metal handle.

For a second, he could hear nothing at all. His ears adjust suddenly, cheers of long-held desperation assaulting him. A sea of purple flags clenched in grubby fists encapsulates his vision. Low chanting of a name that doesn’t belong to him fills his ears. 

Though his legs shake beneath him, he refuses to reveal it. He takes long, confident strides towards the carriage awaiting him, pulled by a single horse, and covered in jewels worth more than anything he had ever owned. The carriage that would carry him to his demise or rebirth into a life of extravagance. 

The jostling of the carriage over each large stone lining the path does nothing to dissolve Amthir’s unease. His attention is captured by the clink of low-lit lanterns dangling from the silk ropes intertwined into purple curtains that cover fogged windows. Worry-wrinkled eyes watch the flames rise and fall, swaying with the unsteady wagon. Ripping off the slightly blemished gauntlets, he wrings his hands in his lap. His hands move sharply to grip the cuirass restraining his torso, his hands burning as the sharp edges of his armor dig into the creases of his fingers. It feels too tight, though it couldn’t be farther from it. The gaps in the suit where broad shoulders are meant to sit remind him that it isn’t his. He starts to plead for the shadows caused by unfilled knees and loose elbows to envelop him. He begins to crave to be taken somewhere without woe, without poverty, without the need to risk a life to begin one. 

As the horse slows, his stomach begins to curl into itself. He almost doubles over, wrenching as foreboding’s razor-edged canines sink into his internal organs. 

A knight, around his own rank, opens the cabin door lined with soft velvet and details of pure gold. The unnamed knight makes a low bow, his forehead gracing the dirt path beneath them. 

Amthir rises slowly, attempting to conceal his terror with mock nonchalance. A soft hiss escapes his mouth as the rising, angry red indentions in his hand meet the golden handle he grasps to steady himself. 

The knight leads him to the edge of the cave opening, evidently reluctant to go any further. Gaining a soft chill, the armor whistles against the gentle wind. The metal protecting his feet clangs against the stones hidden amongst fire-scorched grass.

Slipping back on the gauntlets, Amthir considers for a moment, before asking, as fiercely as he can make his voice, for the knight's name. 

The reply is meek and muttered, but he appreciates it the same. 

The trek inside the cave is long and unbearably hot. He feels sweat build up underneath the smothering armor, and the hotter parts sting his skin. 

The single sword on his back feels overwhelmingly heavy.

A deep, ground-shaking growl echoes throughout the cave off insect-covered walls. Bats begin to stir, taking flight and soaring through the darkness encompassing him. 

Amthir takes another unsteady step forward before planting his feet onto the rubble beneath him, littered with scraps of burnt armor and charred remains.  

The creature, illuminated only by fire and smoke emitting from its nose, stood proudly in front of him.

Enormous, calculating eyes follow his quivering arm as he unsheathes his sword. He raises the weapon, sleek metal coming alive with the reflections of red and yellow flames. 

For a moment, everything is still. They both pause, as if unsure how to proceed, though the end is pointedly clear. 

Amthir finds himself holding his breath, lungs convulsing, desperate for air. His fingers itch around the thick handle of the sword, though seemingly stopped in motion. The scaled head moves slowly backward, nose filling with a greater inferno.

He begins to see flashes of impoverished streets lined with garbage and debris, and children dodging wagons and horses, playing knight and dragon.

His mind wanders to the knight in the carriage outside the mouth of the cave, awaiting an arrival, though knowing deep down it will never come. He thinks of Alexander, the one whose armor he wears on his back, and whose sword he grips in a filthy, unstable hand. He wonders if he will be grateful it was Amthir in the cave in his place, or angry at a stolen, failed opportunity to save the kingdom. He thinks of his unkempt home becoming dust-covered, then cleared and resold to another lowly, nameless knight. 

He sees gapped teeth, dirty feet, scraped knees, and long grass. He can smell fresh bread, and hear his mother's beckoning for dinner. He can feel the wind on his face, chest rising and falling as puffs of laughter fill his lungs and exit through a crooked smile. 

His next image is of nothing but himself, naked and bare. He sees his dreams and his passions. He thinks of unwritten journals, words unsaid, chores undone. He thinks of what could’ve been, what should’ve been. He wishes to be a writer, a painter, a musician, and a poet. He wonders what would’ve been if he had been fated to be a baker, a stall cleaner, a trader traveling the world.

He thinks of how in this moment he is nothing but himself, but still not enough. 

For a fleeting moment, he considers running so fast and hard, not unlike he used to, until his legs ignite with exhaustion and his chest burns, impending explosion. 

As flames engulf him, the world around him blurs, the creature's roar fading into a distant echo. 

The heated weapon falls from an outstretched hand, meeting the ground with a resounded clang.