The Soldier and His Wife

      Once upon a time, in a small forest village, there lived a great soldier and his noble wife.  Freshly wed, they settled down to enjoy the pleasantries of life together.  Dreams and plans once only imagined were satisfied.  Wishes were granted.  The sun shone brightly upon their home, and the clouds never covered its illuminating warmth and comfort.
         Every morning, the soldier packed his lunch, kissed his wife on the cheek, and began his ten mile trek into town to attend to his king.  While he was gone, his wife tidied up the home, sweeping dust from dark corners and boiling carrots and potatoes for a dinner stew.  And every night, just as the sun slid quietly away, the soldier met his wife outside where she waited, and the two came together in an impassioned embrace.
         This continued for many days and many weeks, until one night the soldier did not appear, even as the moon struggled valiantly to outshine its father in the sky.  Still, his wife waited outside with clasped hands, until finally a slumped figure was seen trudging towards the home.  The soldier embraced his wife as he had faithfully done each night, but a heavy gloom shadowed his countenance as he did so.
         “What is wrong?” she asked.  “Are you hurt?  Are you ill?”
         “No, dear wife,” the soldier replied, “I have news to share, but I fear for our child.”
         His wife placed a hand on her belly.  “We shall be all right.  But tell me, what has you so troubled?”
         He sighed.  “Our king is leading us to battle tomorrow.  I must go and serve with him until the end.”
         “But when shall you return?” she asked, apprehension rising within her frame.  “The child is near due, the crops are near harvest.”
         The soldier blinked away a tear even as he pulled her close.  “I do not know, good wife, for my duty requires but obedience and not understanding.”  He cradled her tenderly in his arms.  “But I shall return.  I shall.”

         The next morning, the soldier arose and found his wife waiting for him, lunch in hand.  He kissed her on the cheek.  She responded by pressing something firmly into his palm- a lock of hair, neatly braided and bound on both ends by a lump of wax.
         “But I have nothing for you,” said the soldier.  “How shall you remember me while I am away?”
         His noble wife patted her stomach.  “I think you have given me quite enough,” she smiled.  “We shall be all right.”
         They embraced once more as the sun began to rise over the small forest village, and the soldier said goodbye.  He tucked the lock of hair into his pocket and, with a final wave, started forward on his journey.
         
         The battles lasted for many days, and the soldier soon grew quite weary of the fighting.  Each day, they gained more ground than the day before, but still kept pushing further from home.  Yet the soldier did not question his king, but pushed forward with him, knowing when the end had come, he would be going home.
         The lock of hair he kept tightly between sword hilt and hand.  “For,” he told a comrade, “although I follow my king, I left my heart behind.  I shall know I am still alive if I can feel it beating within my palm.”
         Meanwhile, as the war raged fierce, his wife gave birth to a bright, healthy boy, who did indeed very much resemble his father.  He had the same dark brown eyes, the same jutting chin, and fair, unblemished skin from head to toe.  He became a great joy to his mother and never ceased to cause her much laughter and merriness of heart.
         As the child grew, he became quite curious over the absence of his father.  Why, his mother tilled the garden, cleaned the house, and cooked every meal herself.  Surely she were not meant to do these things alone.  “But where is father?” he asked her one day.  “Why does he not help us?”
         “Your father is in battle,” the noble wife explained.  “He is following the king and shall return when the land is at peace.  But do not fret.  We shall be all right.”
         “Well, I shall find my father,” the boy declared stubbornly.  “I shall find him and bring him back to live with us.”
         But his mother only smiled and said no more.

         Eight years passed, and the child grew into a strapping young man of fifteen.  Thick muscles rested upon his broad shoulders, arms sinewy and lean.  His face had become even more resemblant of his father with a prominent chin stationed below narrow cheeks and deep, engaging eyes.  Quite a boy, the village folk said amongst themselves, Quite a handsome lad.
         One day, his mother approached him as he worked diligently in the fields.  “Son, I think it is time for you to go.”
         He looked up at her with wide eyes.  “Go away?  To find father?”  Then he quickly frowned.  “But you are not well, mother.  I should not leave you now.”
         She smiled.  “I shall be all right, as I always have.  You have given me plenty of food and wood, and I am not very ill.”  Yet even as she spoke, she turned to stifle a dry cough.
         The boy hesitated, but soon smiled back.  “Well, I shall go then,” he decided.  “I shall go bring father back to us.  And we shall all celebrate then, mother.  We shall all be happy.”
         The following morning, the young man arose, packed a lunch, and kissed his sleeping mother on her cheek.  “I shall find him, mother,” he whispered, “and we shall all be happy soon.”

         Winding trails and steep rises greeted the young traveler as he set out to find his likeness.  At night, he found quiet shelters to rest, while during the day he walked from town to town inquiring about his father.  He made no particular destination, nor did he ever hope to have one.  Father is also looking for us, he thought.  I shall meet him somewhere along the road.
         Four days and nights passed until finally he did see a figure coming towards him down a hill.  The man was big and burly, and he wore a suit and markings of-
         “A soldier!” the boy rejoiced, and quickly ran to greet the lumbering giant.
         “Sir,” he cried, “have you news of the war?  Is the end near?”  He saw the man had an immense red beard covering his face, wisps of hair sprouting from nostrils and ears.
         The soldier gazed at the boy intently and shook his head in wonder.  “The war is over, has been for two years now.”  He stared into the boy’s dark brown eyes.  “Has no one told you?”
         “No, sir.  I left home but days ago.  My mother sent me to find my father.  He was a soldier, as well.”
         “And a fine one, at that,” the soldier replied, keeping his attention upon the boy’s face.  “You have his eyes and his nose.”
         “You know my father, then?  Is he well?  Is he looking for us still?”
         The man shook his head slowly, sadly.  “Your father perished in the war, son.  He was a good man and a great soldier.  He carried his sword high as he marched and never met the enemy with fear in his heart.  I fought beside him many days, and he brought me comfort by his courage.”  The soldier reached into a pocket and pulled out a tattered, crumbling band.  “This is what he held in his hand to remind him of his wife and his son.  Take this to your mother.  Tell her he died with it clenched within his fist.”
         The boy accepted the filthy lock of hair and thanked the soldier for his kind words.  Then, without a tear, he turned, bowed his head, and headed back towards home.
         
         Upon arriving back in the small forest village where he lived, the young man immediately called out for his mother.  She did not answer him, nor did she step outside to greet him. 
         “Mother?” he puzzled, as he entered the home.  “I have returned.”
         Again, she did not answer her son.  He saw her lying in bed and quickly went to her side.  Her lips and cheeks were pale and her hair, rough and tangled, lay strewn about her face.  He knelt and took her cold, limp hand in his own.
         “Mother, what can I do?  What shall I get you?”
         She opened her eyes with much effort and breathed a faint smile upon her lips.  “My dear husband, you have returned.”
         “No, mother, it is I, your son.”  He reached his other hands towards her and pressed the lock of hair between their grasp.  “And I have brought this home.”
         “I knew you would return,” the noble wife spoke unto her husband, her words floating along in whispers.  “Now we shall be all right, you and I...and our son.”
         With those words, the noble wife relaxed upon her bed, and her grip loosened from her son’s hand.  Now, the boy did begin to weep, and his tears fell heavily upon them both.  Yet, even as he wept, he moved his mother’s hands across her chest and placed the lock of hair beneath.
         And in that moment, as the hair fell upon her breast, the noble wife opened her eyes and walked into the open arms of the great soldier.  They embraced tightly with smiles upon their faces, and once again their hearts beat as one.