Sometimes the final missions are the ones that have the most impact on us. Long years of war and one more emotional mission before this soldier is finally free.
Marc Fridwolf sat in his favorite chair in front of his warm fireplace. The old, well worn, wooden chair seemed to perfectly fit every curve of his body. He had made it himself years before, after he had returned home from the wars. It was not fancy, it had no padding, and occasionally a splinter would prick him, but the old warrior would not have wanted it any other way. This chair, that Marc built with his own hands, was his reward to himself for making it home alive. Marc would sit in front of his campfire with his joints aching and dream about building the perfect chair. It would be the one place he could relax his bones well into old age. This chair was his fulfilled promise to himself.
His mind was not on his chair tonight however. As Marc sat in his empty house in front of his fireplace, his mind was on other things. Marc's eyes drifted from the fire to his armor that rested on a display rack in the main room of the small house. His well worn long sword hung on the wall above it. The battered scabbard hid an almost perfect blade that Marc still polished to this day. In truth he didn't really like to display it, he much preferred to forget those times, but his wife was very proud of her warrior husband. She had insisted that they be displayed. And like always he gave in to her deep brown eyes. Marc's wife had been gone for many years now and his daughter had moved on with her own life. Both were special people that brought him so much joy, more that he thought he deserved after such a life of violence.
The old warrior's gaze went back to the fire. Marc shifted his old body in his chair. Though he had lost the well toned muscled body of a young warrior he was far from weak. Most in his small town would swear he could still take down a legion of men all on his own. The absurdness of these musings always made Marc smile. Where do the villagers, most of who had never seen combat, get these ideas?
Many times Marc had tried to tell them what it was really like. How terrified he was and that his hand often shook before battle. Marc had told them how he was forced to sleep with one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. He became such a light sleeper that a breeze blowing gently on the side of his canvas tent was more than enough to fully wake him from a deep sleep. Even though those years were long behind him, Marc found that he could never allow himself to truly sleep soundly, even in his own home.
Marc's mind flipped through the memories of his long years at war, like another man might flip through pages of a book. For so many years he had lived the road with the constant risk that he may not live to see the next day. He lost so many friends during his campaigns. In fact, Marc had lost so many close comrades that he began to refuse to allow himself to get close to anyone, because he knew that the next day, or even in the next breath, they could be gone forever. Still, the ones who died quickly were the lucky ones and Marc knew it. Those who suffered a far worse fate were the ones that were bloodied or cleaved in battle, but did not die right away. These poor wretches often lingered on in pain, often for weeks, while fevers and festering wounds finished the job that the enemy did not.
Marc had fought in many battles and received his fair share of wounds. Some of those battles ended in victory, others in defeat. Sometimes his unit was so decimated that it was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to survive. Sometimes it was he who helped to decimate the enemy.
Even though the heat of war had cooled in his blood, Marc could still remember the feel of the blood lust that came with battle. Marc could still hear the clash of steel and the cries of the dying. He could still see the enemy, through red tinged vision and smell the blood flowing across the ground like grisly streams. Marc forced himself to think of his foes as devils. It made it easier for him to kill a man that in another time and place could have been a friend and confidant.
Even though everything in those days was a battle and many of them blurred together; one mission in particular stuck out in his mind. It was his last assignment, his most important task. It began when his commanding officer gave him a piece of parchment with a wax seal. He had been waiting on this mission for years for such an important task and that time was finally here.
"Don't fail me," Marc remembered his captain saying to him. He could even hear commanding officer's gruff voice in his head. It was funny how certain things would stick in ones memory.
Marc saluted and left the camp on horseback. He wanted to leave his armor behind, but his Captain ordered him to take it, "If you leave it, you will regret it forever Fridwolf."
The road he traveled was long and hard, the only thing that eased the difficult journal was the warm late spring weather. However all the pleasant weather did was make Marc push himself ever harder. There were many times he should have stopped. Marc would force both his horse and his own body to brink of exhaustion. All he could think about was what was in the parchment, the single most important thing he had ever been asked to carry. Marc had never failed to follow orders. He was one of the most trusted soldiers in his battalion and his reputation was on the line. Marc had a job to do, and he was going to see it through.
Hours on the road melted into days, then days dragged into weeks, and the weeks seemed to last for years. At times he was nearly in tears with thoughts of what this last mission meant. When Marc made camp he would look into his campfire and his thoughts would stray. These introspections were often called Marc's greatest weakness by his fellow soldiers. To them he seemed to be always looking ahead, or away instead of keeping his mind in the moment. Marc could not have disagreed more.
But Marc never took the time to explain to his comrades why he embraced the habit so. It was a link to his humanity. By allowing his mind to wonder and drift to different ideas he felt it helped to keep him human. When your business is killing, staying human was more important than the sword, or the armor.
Marc would always get underway at first light and usually did not stop until late into the night. The only time he stopped for longer was a single time where he stayed camped by a river bank for three days. He was not injured or sick, nor was his horse. He was not hiding from the enemy or a band of roving bandits. He was not even waiting out some fierce late spring storm. He was following orders. His Captain, knowing full well how Marc thought, ordered him to stop halfway though his journey to rest for a minimum of three days. He knew that Marc would push himself and his horse hard, and he also knew that his determined warrior would likely kill both his horse and himself from exhaustion if he did not give this order. He knew Marc would follow it, as he always followed his orders.
When Marc argued his Captain practically yelled at him, "Damn it man, what good will you be if you die before you even get there, you great stubborn oaf!"
This memory always made Marc smile. In some ways his Captain knew Marc better than his own mother did.
When Marc got within one day of his journey's end he dispensed with rest and charged ahead hard. He walked his horse when needed and only rested brief periods when his mount required it. Marc could swear the stout warhorse would have loved to kick his rider's chest in.
At long last Marc arrived at his destination. It was a small but comfortable looking house just outside of a village that was nestled in the woods. Marc could see herbs growing in small gardens near the front door, and off to the side he could another larger garden for fruits and vegetables. Behind the house was nothing but trees. This was how all the homes in town were built. The townspeople didn't clear away trees to make room for big town squares. They cleared only what they had to make room for their homes and gardens. They considered the forest as much a part of their home as their dwellings. There weren't even real roads linking the homes and businesses, instead there were trails and paths.
Marc's eyes went to the plain wooden door. Now his hand began to shake, like so often before battle. But this time was different. This time he had nervousness deep in the pit of his stomach, along with a lump in his throat. He took out the scroll and looked at it then he looked up at the door.
"This is it Fridwolf," he said aloud to himself, "You have come this far, it is time to finish your final mission."
The warrior strode to the door, half walking, and half running. He knocked hard on it with a gloved hand. Almost immediately a woman opened the door. She saw a powerful warrior in his gleaming armor standing before her. Her eyes immediately teared up. Marc handed the woman a scroll with his trembling hand. She looked it with a blank expression. It seemed as though she was about to say something, but instead she broke the seal and began to read.
Dear Madam,
It is a soldier's duty to place their lives in harm's way. That is the very essence of being a soldier. They fight for the lords, they fight for their comrades and most importantly, they fight for their families. Unfortunately, many do not see the end of the war that took them away from their homes and their families.
The woman paused with tear filled eyes and looked up at Marc. He gently motioned her to keep reading.
Sometimes however, the opposite is true, which is why I am writing to you Madam. I have never been good with words so I will make the rest of this letter brief.
I hereby now and forever release your husband Marc Fridwolf from his duties as a soldier and into your custody. He has served me well and his role as a soldier is now over. He deserves only peace and serenity after his many struggles. I pray your love together will be long and happy. You have both earned this and much more. Thoughts of home kept him alive, more than any training or sword ever could. In the end he did not fight for this army he fought to return to you. If only all soldiers were as fortunate.
Captain Leeant
She dropped the letter, Marc dropped his precious, well cared for sword, and he finally got to do what he had been dreaming about for the past four years. He got to hold his wife in his arms, and then from behind his wife he the sweetest thing his ears had ever been blessed with.
"Daddy!"
Mission accomplished.