Gifts

For Everyone:

The warrior was tired. Trudging through battle after battle, a lonely quest whose destination even he did not know, he pressed on. Demons hunted him, from within and without. Bandits and mercenaries and the innocent, all died by his blade. Accident or not, deserving or not, every death, every loss clung to his mind's eye and refused to let go. No matter how hard the rain fell, or how many times he bathed, he could never get the blood off his hands, his face, his body. It stained him, mocking his continued travels, keeping children afraid of him, doors closed, windows barricaded in fear.

Until one day, the warrior met a healer and his wife. They saw him, red clinging to his armor and sword and skin. The warrior winced, expecting them to run, or to attack. They approached.

"Why do you carry so much blood, young warrior?" Asked the healer. The warrior, confused, offered a shrug and the truth:

"It won't come off."

"Why not?" Asked the healer's wife, tucking one of the couple's two children tighter into her arms. The child was a girl, and she stared at him before burying her head in her mother's shoulder. Their son cowered behind his father's legs, peeking at the blood soaked soldier and darting away.

"I don't know," the warrior confessed, letting the tip of his sword press into the dirt road beneath their feet. "No matter what I do, what I have done... It won't come off."

"Then perhaps, it is not the blood clinging to you, but you clinging to the blood," the healer suggested. The warrior frowned, and shook his head with a sad, bitter laugh.

"What nonsense is that? How can I cling to the blood? I cannot hold it in my hands and will it to stay can I?" The healer smiled back, compassion in his eyes. His wife's eyes were the same, and the warrior felt an urge to run.

"Nevertheless, young warrior, it remains. So, why should this theory be any less likely than another?" The warrior pondered this. The healer turned to his wagon.

"We are returning home to our village," the healer's wife said. "We would be happy to grant you rest." The warrior frowned.

"I have nothing to pay for boarding," he protested. "It would not be right."

And you should not have to bear the burden of having a monster in your home, he thought further. The healer continued to smile.

"Young warrior... Would you prefer to sleep outside in the cold yet another night?" He gently inquired. The warrior frowned, deep in thought as the rest of the healer's family clambered into their wagon... And he joined them, sitting in the back and being careful about the medicines and scrolls littering the floor of the vehicle. Inside was better than outside, though he could not imagine why anyone would take him in.

"Because, young warrior," the healer spoke into the warrior's thoughts, "you are not the only one who has had blood that will not come off." The warrior stared at the healer, but he and his wife kept silent as they rode for their village.

For Daniel:

The young warrior was amazed at the weapons on the wall of the healer's home. While his children played and giggled upstairs, he examined each and every one. Knives, shields, spears, arrows, swords-All were displayed. The healer asked for the warrior's weapon, and though reluctant at first, the warrior handed it over. The healer nodded thoughtfully, wielding the blade for practice with an approving eye and expert hand.

"A good weapon. Well balanced, strong, maintained. But only as good as the one holding it." The healer handed it back, and the warrior took it back, a bit shocked. The healer smiled, aged eyes boring into his own.

"Your eyes tell your story better than your mouth could, young warrior," the healer spoke. The warrior felt angry.

"How do you know what story my eyes tell? How could you know anything?" The healer sighed, no longer smiling. He looked away at the weapons on the wall.

"Because I too was a warrior, once. I fought, I killed, I was awash in blood. I was lost... Until I met a man. A man who gave me back my hope, by showing that blood is not the end all of life." The young warrior listened to the sounds of the happy children upstairs, to the content humming of the healer's wife in the kitchen, and shook his head.

"Where might I find this man?" The healer looked at him.

"You seek to wash away the blood?" The young warrior nodded, determination in his green eyes.

"I will find him. I must find him. Too long have I bathed in blood... I should like to be rid of it." The healer sighed.

"You need only let it go, young warrior."

"I cannot. Not alone," the warrior replied. The healer nodded thoughtfully.

"True... But you also cannot do so without giving up that which covered you in blood." The warrior frowned, holding his sword more tightly.

"Give up my blade?" The healer shook his head.

"No, young warrior, though you may end up doing so anyway. You must give up that which keeps the blade red."

For Jen:

The healer's wife was washing clothes out behind the house the next day. She watched the young warrior out as well, practicing fighting with his blade. She knew her husband well enough to recognize a gifted fighter.

"You do very well for one your age," she complimented, as the young warrior walked back near her. He shook his head.

"I do not. I fight and live. It is enough."

"It is never enough to simply live," the healer's wife insisted. "Take my children, for instance. Do you think that they would be happy, be successful, if I only kept them alive?" The young warrior frowned.

"I do not understand."

"I bathe them, I clothe them, I feed them-But is that enough?" The healer's wife asked. The warrior frowned, silent, so the healer's wife continued.

"Life is not enough. Life must also have meaning. So I give it to them." The warrior blinked.

"How?" He asked. The healer's wife smiled gently.

"Through love, young warrior. Through love, do I give them more than life. I help them really live."

"... I don't understand," the warrior responded after a moment. The healer's wife nodded thoughtfully.

"Then speak to the man who helped my husband. He lives on the other side of the mountain," here she pointed behind him. The warrior turned, and indeed there was a great mountain rising above the forest. The warrior turned back.

"Thank you." He set out the next day. The children of the healer and his wife waved after him, and he, strangely enough, felt compelled to wave back, before heading into the forest.

For Dawnlaura:

The warrior marched on, no stranger to hard hikes. Yet the prospect of a journey with an end, with hope, made his steps lighter. Unfortunately, his quest to be free of the blood on his head and body was interrupted. Five bandits surrounded a young woman in a dark robe. She wore a pack of scrolls on her back, and wielded two long needles in defense. As the warrior drew closer, he saw that she was using feather quills for her weapons, and doing well against her attackers.

A fighting scribe? He thought, as he plunged into battle in her defense. Driving off the bandits, the scribe turned to the warrior with a slightly bemused expression.

"I thank you, kind warrior, but I had everything in hand," she stated. The warrior sighed.

"Fair lady, fighting is like a second nature to me. While doubtless you put up an excellent defense, you would have been overwhelmed."

"As would you have," the scribe teased the warrior. The warrior smirked.

"Unlikely," he returned. The scribe shook her head with a giggle.

"So, what brings you to the defense of defended ladies, sir warrior?"

"I seek a man, on the other side of the mountain. I was told that he might remove the blood that stains me," the warrior explained. The scribe blinked.

"That is blood?" The warrior felt a confused headache come on as the scribe poked and prodded at his armor.

"Why so it is! But it will not come off!" The scribe smiled. "I am fascinated. Might I come with you?"

"What? Why?" The warrior asked. The scribe laughed lightly.

"So that I may meet this man, and find out how he might remove this blood. I am a seeker of knowledge. I record it, here."

"It may be very dangerous, and I cannot protect you all the time," the warrior warned. The scribe huffed.

"I can protect myself just fine, thank you sir warrior, not that your assistance was unappreciated. However, you are unique. Your situation and quest are also interesting and unique. I cannot help that I wish to see how it continues." The warrior sighed.

"Very well, my lady. I'm sure you are aware of the risks, recorded somewhere in those scrolls of yours?"

"Not yet," the scribe said mischeviously, "but soon!"

The warrior felt another headache coming on. However, he could not help but admit that the scribe's cheery disposition and wide wisdom made his otherwise silent journey more pleasant. They learned more about eachother, about their pasts, before finally coming to a small town at the base of the mountain.

For Pete:

"And so we leave, tattered hearts in all, never to share with home again, as our exiled souls prevail," sang a bard at a street corner. The warrior and the scribe stared at the poet/singer, who grinned, and extended a hand.

"Slam!"

"Slam?" Asked the warrior, while the scribe wrote this down. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I slammed you with poetry and song. Now you, return the slam," the minstrel clarified. The warrior shook his head.

"I have no poetry to exchange, my dear minstrel. Perhaps the scribe...?" The scribe shrugged helplessly.

"Would notes on the forest be fair exchange?" she suggested. The minstrel shook his shaggy head of brown hair, leaping off his box with a depressed expression.

"But I need one slam in exchange for another! That is how it works!"

"I'm sorry, good minstrel, but we have no such slam," the warrior replied. "We are on a journey and therefore-"

"A quest, you say?" The minstrel asked, intrigued. The scribe related their travels so far, and the minstrel's interest grew.

"Ah! A tale worthy of ballad! Might I trouble you to hum a few bars?"

"To hum a few...?" The minstrel began to play on his guitar, looking thoughtful. He shook his head, sighing.

"No, no... This will not do. I cannot write a ballad with only what you have given me." The scribe shook her head.

"But we have nothing else to relate, aside from this meeting with you and-!"

"Of course! I have it! Please, dear lady and great warrior, allow me to accompany you! It would not do to leave me with an unfinished slam," the minstrel stated with a proud bow. The warrior frowned.

"Can you defend yourself? This will not be an easy journey." The minstrel plucked an arrow from his pack, pulled it back on the strings of his guitar, and fired it, striking a nearby wall. Both scribe and warrior investigated, shocked to see a fly wiggling helplessly as it's wings had been nailed by the arrow-head. Warrior and scribe turned back.

"Can I take that as a yes?" The minstrel asked with a grin.

For Tom:

"You!" The warrior, the scribe, and the minstrel paused outside of town. A lone dragon knight (known as a dragoon) with a spear challenged them.

"Yes, us?" The minstrel asked, confused.

“No, the warrior! You cannot pass!”

“What? Why?”

“Because of your crime… Peeking in on my fiancée in her bath!” The dragoon accused. The scribe and the minstrel stared at the warrior, who (his skin being red with blood) may have been blushing or not.

"That's absurd! I did no such thing!" The warrior defended himself, and truth be told he could not really remember if he had or hadn’t done so.

"Did so!"

"Did not!"

"Did so!"

"Did not!"

"Did so!"

"Did not!"

"If you will not confess, then you pay the consequences!" The dragoon shouted, lowering his spear and getting ready to charge. The warrior held up his sword while his companions prepared for battle. The dragoon stared at the minstrel.

"Minstrel?"

"Dragoon?" Abruptly, the two dropped their weapons, ran to eachother and hugged. The warrior and the scribe blinked.

"You're with the warrior?"

"Yup! Who are you with?" A dark haired, beautiful woman in the outfit of a mage emerged from the shadows.

"He's with me," the mage replied. Her eyes wandered to the warrior. "Warrior, nice to see you again," she said pleasantly.

"Likewise," returned the warrior, though he could not remember meeting the mage before either. The dragoon smiled roguishly at the warrior.

"Sorry my friend, old fears die hard," he apologized. The warrior shrugged. He wasn’t sure how he was a friend to the dragoon, when he could only remember meeting him once.

"Well, it seems she needs some protection, from certain threats anyway,” the warrior observed. The dragoon smirked as the mage rolled her eyes.

“Yes, but don’t tell her that,” he stage whispered, as the scribe and the minstrel broke down into laughter.

For Sheena:

"What do you seek? And why do you have companions?" The mage asked, running a keen eye over the minstrel and the scribe sleeping near the campfire they had made for the night. The dragoon was off hunting, while the mage and warrior stood watch. The warrior shrugged.

"I'm off to see someone on the other side of the mountain, who can remove the blood that covers me," he answered honestly. The mage raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you could have asked me. I have been gaining strength..." The warrior smiled sadly.

"Strength enough to cleanse me?" The mage looked thoughtful, scrutinizing him with senses born of far greater powers and wisdom. She shook her head.

"No..." The warrior sighed.

"But not for the reasons you may be thinking," the mage went on, causing the warrior to blink. She elaborated:

"It's not the blood... It's you."

"That's what the healer said," he snorted. "If I could have removed it, I would have done so by now." The mage sighed, a sad smile on her face.

"It's not for lack of trying, warrior... But for lack of letting go." The mage stared intently at him, and he fidgeted.

"You only need to let it go, warrior, and you would be free."

"How?" The warrior asked, meek and vulnerable. The mage's smile became a little brighter.

"Find something else to care about," she suggested. "And let it give you the strength to stand your ground."

Finally:

It came to a battle. That's what it took. To see his new and old friends nearly struck down by the beast lurking near a cave where the sage was rumored to live. What kind of creature it was, nobody knew. It had appeared as something different in everyone's eyes.

In the eyes of the warrior, it appeared as a mass of all the people he had failed to protect, and those he had killed. They had taken down his friends, all also paralyzed by fear as it advanced on them. He was the last, at the back of the group, at the mage's insistence. He was the reason they had all come here, after all. He needed to be safe for his goal

to be reached.

The warrior's guilt seemed to crush him all the more as his friends lay around him, and his victims closed in. He trembled, the urge to run screaming in his mind... Until he stops. He looks up, anger burning in his eyes, as well as understanding.

"I'm not running," he said. The monsters move again, rearing up to crush him.

"I'm NOT running," he repeated, as the monster barreled down.

"I'M NOT RUNNING!" The wave crashes against him, breaking and shattering apart into harmless wisps of darkness. He blinks, seeing his comrades unharmed, blinking back at him.

"... What the heck was that?" The scribe asked, shaken. The dragoon, minstrel, and mage all looked about the same.

"That," said a familiar voice from the cave, as all turned to spot the healer and his wife, smiling, "was a test. And you all passed." The healer looked at the warrior with a broad grin.

"Especially you." The warrior looked down at his skin, and gawked. His skin was... pure again, not a speck of red on it. And his sword was as clean and proud and pristine as it was the day it was made. He looked up, gaping.

"... It was... That simple?"

"Once you saw it for what it was... Yes," the healer's wife recommended. The warrior looked about at his companions, the pieces fitting together.

"You planned this from the start!" It came together now: The scribe was a friend of his from his childhood, the minstrel one who had made him laugh back home, the dragoon the one who taught him how to fight, the mage like a big sister to him, and the healers...

"Yes..." The healer admitted, as did the rest of the troop. "You couldn't recognize anyone, not even yourself... So we showed you the way home."

"And the old man? Was he ever real?" The mage smirked, as the minstrel grinned and answered him.

"He guided you here... I think that's real enough, don't you think?" The warrior looked down once more at his sword, tears threatening... Before a smile lit up his face.

"Real enough to bring me home again."

MERRY CHRISTMAS!