Itinerant Chronicler

Final Mission

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.