The Legend Me

The things of legends don’t feel mystical. Legends and myths are the jobs of bards and poets. To take the horrors of battle and romanticize them into stories for the masses. They make the putrid copper scent of death and the rotten taste of festering meat palatable as one drinks ale at an inn. Legends are stories crafted by the bard about actions from hands like mine. 

Calloused covered hands chose years of toil and work instead of chasing an impossible dream. My friends tested their metal, became pages or joined armies. They chased dreams of glory while I tilled soil, cobbled, and forged iron. If it could be pulled, hammered, lifted, or worked I did it. Worker Fae, they called me, not for magical means, but because of an energy and work ethic of our long-lived neighbors. I didn’t tire nor complain. With a Fae like focus, I worked and forged, molding my body and skill into something that could survive the quest I actually had planned. 

At sixteen, my body wasn’t ready. Nor was my mind or spirit. Maybe it was wisdom that guided me, but as I trained and toiled my friends became fodder. Trialed by fire in a crucible of conflict and war that mostly brought death. Instead I tilled fields, and in turn learned horticulture. I discovered the secrets to harvest and absorbed the skills needed to survive the wild. I hunted with my elder farm hands and picked their brain for every piece of knowledge on plants and tracks. 

I forged steel not only to learn how to repair and sharpen, but to practice. Every foil and axe needed to be tested. Each one needed practice before being handed off. I absorbed everything my master smith had to teach. Every skill and technique a knight or soldier would share. I took every critique on my form and art; I honed my crafts and trained my skills. I learned to use a perfectly balanced weapon and how to get the most out of those that weren’t.

I spent a decade working for others, so at twenty-six I could turn to my family and a quest to retrieve my ancestor’s pilfered blade.

Tough jerky, wet nights, little sleep and less water are the realties of a quest. Companions come and go. Mercenary numbers come and go as your wealth swells and fades. Even with my decade of careful planning and with perfectly balanced blades, the best armor I could forge, and a pack full of supplies, I was woefully naïve of the realties that I would face. 

I always thought the journey would take years, but six never crossed my mind. I knew the weather would be hard, but until you have watched a flash flood wash away your camp and supplies, you can’t understand. I knew battles would be hard, but until your mount is cut out from under you, you don’t understand just how outmatched you are. How the roads less traveled are less traveled for a reason. That what goes bump in the night is kept out by the accumulation of hinderances. Guards are not knights and certainly not heroes. They are fodder. My friends who joined the force are a number to throw at enemies. The walls aren’t meant to be impenetrable, but are obstacles. The truth is the greatest warrior, unless protected by divinity or dark magic, can be felled by a single blade or wound. A wall disrupts the well-honed instincts of those trained in death. Waves of soldiers are a distraction that increases the chance that a lucky stab or even a deep cut can become a festering wound. 

That is the truth. The unnaturally large number of hindrances keeps towns safe, especially when riches can be reaped from an untamed wild. 

The wild is a harsh, unforgiving teacher, but I was a well-trained student versed in the skills to live and adapt. I found allies and food. Won battles and quested for treasures to fuel my travels to my ancestor’s legacy. I found friends, mercenaries, and even lovers. In the company of others, I honed my skills, saved and was saved. I worked for others, even when on a solo mission of my own. 

That was the past. The last, because now I sleep alone around a pile of coals looking at the mountain of a doomed salvation. About a half day’s walk from here is a cave waiting for me to test my skills. Tempting me with a legacy to reclaim. 

Leaves crunch, because despite a flash of summer heat, fall is here. Years in the making, this moment has been delayed time and again. The leaves announce my approach, but I will not wait another winter for the element of surprise. Alas, that wasn’t to be. 

Each step, and twig snap, causes me to tense and squint. At the pinnacle of my journey, the crescendo of my third act, I stay ever vigilant, ready to act, because the truth is:

“This is for me.” 

I speak the words into existence. A mantra I didn’t realize I needed. 

“This is for me.”

I say it again, letting the energy rush through my veins like snow down a mountain. It consumes me, powers me, washes me in its light. 

This is for me. My life hasn’t been, but this moment is. Retrieving this lost relic isn’t my family’s dream, because I was orphaned at thirteen. My stories of glory have already been written and shared by companions and bards whistling like birds in the air. Despite my skills with a blade and how well I prepared, this final part of the quest will never be shared. 

I’m not a poet or a bard, and this final stanza isn’t meant for legend or song. The sword forgotten to time may or may not be mine. Here, taking the first steps to the end of my quest, I smile with glee. Maybe death awaits, but I will greet it as me. 

I will greet it as me.