The Man on the Mountain

War was raging all around him. Burst of dragons fire, and swaths of arrows flew over his head. Everywhere was the sound of hardened steel and iron clashing. The screams of men and were drowned out by the murderous laughter of monsters. He was but a young boy, but his lion-hearted courage overcame his fear of death, and he charged again and again into the fray. And then there was the enemy, barreling towards him, just feet away. Then darkness.

Helden awoke again in darkness but in a warm, dry bed. Someone had bandaged his head and cleaned the sweat and grime off his body. The clothes he was wearing we not his. They were light, but itchy. Helden sat up and took a look around the dark room he had been laid in.

There was no sign of another person, but it looked as if whoever had taken care of him would be back soon. They had left a kettle on the small, dim fire. His head was splitting, and he rubbed it gingerly as he tried to recall the last thing he had seen before blacking out.

There had been a large, heavily clad, pale monster coming at him. He had stood his ground, but was smashed to the ground, and the beast continued its rampage. Helden had raised his head, but then quickly fallen back into the blood-sodden dirt of the battlefield. The whistling of the kettle brought him back into the present.

A cloth pulled back from a portal cut in the rock wall to reveal an old man, wearing light brown and white robes. He was tall and slender, and had no cap to cover his mostly bald head. The man’s face was covered in a thick white beard that had enough black color remaining in it to give the impression of unseeded cotton. His voice was low and soothing.

“Good. I’m glad you’re awake. If you had been out another day, I would have buried you on the side of the mountain.” He gave a chuckle and moved over to take the kettle off the fire.

“A cup of tea ought to do you good.” He poured the steaming water into a cup, and added a splash of blue elixir along with some milk.

“Excuse me, sir…” Helden began, not sure what exactly to say.

“No need to be so formal, Helden. You can all me Greenwald.” He smiled broadly, and said, “Unfortunately, my first name is rather long and difficult to pronounce.”

Helden was confused, however. “I’m sorry, sir…or Greenwald rather, but I don’t understand how you knew my name.”

“Oh, son, I know a great deal of things. But your name was written on the hilt of the sword you were still clutching when I found you. Had to pry that sucker out with an iron bar.” The last bit he murmured to himself.

“My sword!” Helden looked around wildly, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. “Where is it?”

“It’s better off where I left it, sticking in the grave I made for your friends”, Greenwald said firmly.

“How could you! That sword was given to me by my father. It is the only thing that has gotten me through this war.” Helden laid back down. His head was throbbing even harder now, and he felt like he was going to be sick.

“The reason you are alive right now is not because you had some pointy metal stick, it’s because of me. Don’t forget that. Now get some sleep, I will be back later.” The old man handed him a teacup and left through the same cloth-covered portal from which he had entered.

Helden was tired and in pain, but the worst pain he felt was in his heart for all the friends he had lost, and for the sword that had been his strength and resolve. One sip from the cup made him relax a bit, and he began to feel sleepy. Without him knowing it, Helden entered a pleasant and dreamless sleep.

The next few days, Helden saw only little of the old man. Greenwald would bring him tea, bread, and milk from his goats. The old man gave him a series of elixirs and potions to heal his broken bones and cuts. Helden never mentioned the sword again. What else was there to say.
He was indebted to Greenwald for saving his life. He was glad to have survived, but he intended to return to the battle.

At the end of the third day after Helden had awoken, his wounds were healed, and he told Greenwald that he planned to join the fight again.

“What is it you see in this war. Why do you fight?” Greenwald looked tired asking the question.

“I fight to bring peace to our land, to protect the people who live there, to do right.” Helden said proudly.

“And what if you die in the process? What’s the use of that? Where is your peace?”

“I am glad to die to save the life of another.”

“Did you know that one soul is the same as the other? Even if the mind and body are corrupt, young or old, good or evil, it’s all the same.”
He looked Helden in the eye. “Your soul is just as precious as theirs.”

“Even so.” Helden said resolutely. “And what about you? If our souls are the same, how could I want to fight and protect, while you sit idle?
You and your elixirs could help us win the war.”

“In three-hundred odd years of life, I haven’t found any reason to fight for anyone but me.”

“In but six-teen, I have.”

The next morning Helden stole a few elixirs and returned to the battle. Thanks to him he was able to save the lives of many people. He died bringing peace to his people. The old Greenwald lived on, watching the world from his mountain, neither helping the world nor harming it.

Word count 997