Rising Wind

The wind whipped across the surface of the ocean, and the waves crashed upon the rigid rocks of the bluff down below. The tree line that was standing tall behind him cut off the rest of the world, and they swayed like a recently closed stage curtain after a long play. Nobody stood up and applauded. Nobody laughed. There would be no congratulations. There would be no reward. Instead, there would be only silence, sorrow, and regret once again.

He fell to his knees at the edge of the world and screamed into the wind, but his voice got lost like a ship at sea in uncharted waters. As he stared off into the ocean’s horizon, his bloodshot eyes reflected the ball of fire sinking into the sea to end another day. They say the eyes are the doorway to the soul. If that tale is true, then the doorway into his soul was no doorway anyone would ever want a key to.

His head dropped, and the bangs of his long black hair flapped across his face. Veins bulged out the sides of both his temples. The blood that coursed through them wasn’t only made up of plasma, red and white blood cells, and platelets. The blood was also made up of agony, and that was the component that sinisterly made everything work together and keep his body alive.

He wanted to cry. He tried so hard. He needed to cry, but he couldn’t. Somewhere, some time ago, that part of his soul had left him. Perhaps it had been taken from him.

The warrior’s hand slowly loosened its grip, and his long blade slumped onto the earth. The wind whipped hard in anger. Dirt and sand coated the blade, danced onto his body, and stung his face. He thought that if he waited long enough, perhaps he might be fully buried, and his journey would finally end. His wool garments, designed to perfectly fit his physique, were dampened by sweat and blood. His leather, dented armor felt heavy. It was almost suffocating. He unbuckled it, lifted it from his chest, and tossed it aside.

A figure silently walked up beside him. Though the figures’ origin and the stories of its journey were written in scrolls over time and preached for generations, the figure remained as mysterious as the universe. Not all who saw the figure could understand what they saw. Those who couldn’t understand were turned to sand. Those who did understand had become his chosen.

The warrior slowly lifted his head and calmly asked, “Why me?”

The figure stood in silence, but its voice came in the rising wind. “Because you’re different than most of the others. You can feel it deep inside like a roaring river. You can see it like a mountain piercing through the clouds.”

The warrior breathed slowly before replying, “I know this, yet I continue to fail you.”

The rising wind spoke as the waves continued to crash into the rocks below. “Yes, you have failed me. You have failed me more times than there are stars in the sky, yet when you return to this place within your mind, I am always here, waiting.”

The warrior looked down at his blade. It was not a weapon for killing. It was a weapon for resistance. Resistance against the enemy that waited for him to awaken. The enemy that stood in the shadows starving and fed on ruin and sabotage. He looked at his armor. The dirt and sand began to form a thin coat over it. His armor was not worn to invoke fear or power. It was worn for protection. Protection against the enemy that lay thirsty in the voices of others and quenched its thirst from insults of unworthiness.

The warrior spoke again. “I come back to this place because I know what I should do. I come back to this place to tell you; I want to try again. But I come to this place because I am afraid I have failed you too many times, and there’s no point to my existence anymore.”

The figure placed its hand on the warrior's shoulder. “Try again; you will. But fail again; you will not. Someday, this earth will take you. Maybe naturally, maybe unfairly. So stand up now. Stand up and fight.”

The warrior closed his eyes, and the wind began to settle around him. The ocean waters that crashed upon the rocks down below started to ease. The tree line that stood tall behind him stood still like a thousand warriors aligned in formation, eagerly awaiting their orders to charge into battle. Deep in his thoughts, he found focus. The next time he opened his eyes, he would be new. The old version of himself would shed away like the skin of a snake.

He opened his eyes, and the sky had turned blood red. Stripes of purple, yellow, and orange sprayed across its canvas as the sun now lay completely hidden behind the horizon of the calm ocean.

“I will not fail this day,” the warrior said as he pulled his armor to him. He padded away the dirt and sand and put it on. He buckled and tightened it. He spoke louder, “I will not fail this day.” He gripped the handle of his blade. He spoke even louder, “I will not fail this day.” He stood up from his knees, and with everything in his being, he yelled into the rising wind, “I will not fail this day!”

His voice echoed for miles in all directions. The figure of mysterious origin had disappeared. The warrior turned and gazed into the tree line. The world that waited beyond would not recognize him. Who he came as was left in the sand. Who he came as would blow away in the wind. Who he came as would be dissolved in the ocean waters below. From this moment on, he would fail no more. From this moment on, he would not run and hide. From this moment on, he would stand, and he would fight.