The Old Warrior

Sitting here, in this strange place, a place that in all his long life he had never been before and in a situation he had never once imagined for himself, he considered all of the old wisdom he had heard about warriors like himself who lived, fought, and struggled and then, later realize that it was better to die in battle, die young than to grow old and feeble. Allowing this thing called old age to extract from him such a price of pain and memories. Pain of a different sort than any he had known from his many battles.

Yet here he was, one of the old warriors, the “elder warrior” they called him. Sitting in this place where physical healing was supposed to take place. Sitting in this chair, with his bloodied and viscera-covered sword propped against it, dripping on the clean floor, having refused the offered bed. Waiting. He was not sure exactly what he was waiting for or why. He listened to each of them who came in and worked on his wound, each one confident that with their help, he could “recover.”

Interesting word, recover. Recover his youth, his former prowess with a blade, leading his men into battle, into victory after victory? He smirked at that thought. If only. No, he knew their meaning was much more practical. Recovering to them meant healing the wound he had suffered and the accompanying infection that would have killed him if left untreated. Recovery meant saving his leg and his life. They all had said a good recovery would probably mean not walking with a limp but definitely not enough strength to lead any more battles.

He and some of his men had been sent out to a fight near this place. A fight that spilled over into the very grounds he now occupied. Seeing the battle turn towards this place of healing, he adjusted his assault to protect this place. The hoard of the dead and infected enemy, having smelled blood and sensed some of the healing magic here, had forced him to change from open street fighting, a thing he loved, to actively defending this place from their mad rush to get inside. 

That is how he was wounded, fighting a limited front, blocked in on two sides by these infected creatures. Reaching down to help a young fighter back on his feet, one of the infected had bitten the back of his leg where his armor was not sturdy. The pain was instantaneous. Hot, burning hot, and with each passing moment it grew until he could not bear his own weight any longer. He could not be distracted by it though as his men were falling, outnumbered, and losing the fight. 

It was then that the young warrior he had lifted up found a chair with wheels used to push the sick around. With the young one pushing his new chariot, he rallied his remaining force to hold the entrance until help arrived. Sitting up as high as he could, shouting at his young warrior to keep strong, driving them on further into the fight, he had rallied his men and held the entrance. The sight of him singing his death song, hacking at the hoard, his sword slashing left, right, in front, and behind his young driver, who ducked down and drove him ever onward, had terrified the enemy and emboldened his men. They had held on, and help did arrive.

Now, here he sat, exhausted and in pain. He had secured the building and grounds and placed his young chariot driver in charge of its defenses, leaving him to the confines of this chair in this room. He had been here many hours now or, had it been days, he was unsure. Between the healers working on his wound and the near-constant visits from his men, he was completely exhausted. The healers eventually posted one of his men outside his room to stop the flow of visitors so he could rest.

He thought that he might be able to sleep now, but sleep evaded him as he noticed the spider. As spiders go, it was quite large.  It had an odd red mark on its back in the shape of a cross. The same shape and color as the cross on this building. It had begun weaving its web almost immediately after the most recent healer had told him to try to sleep. He did not sense danger from the creature, just magic, like it belonged here in this place.

He spoke to the creature, asking it to explain why it was wrapping him up, but he got no reply. The spider stopped while he spoke to it but then went back to weaving its web. He could now see that the spider had not stopped at his wounded leg but was, in fact, busy wrapping his entire body in silk.

He wondered if this was real or if he had fallen asleep. He was not afraid; he just looked on as the creature worked. He thought that there were only two possible outcomes if he was not dreaming. The spider was using some strange healing magic to help him or maybe help his pain, or the spider was preparing the warrior for his death. Oddly, the warrior did not feel the need to sing his death song at this strange turn of events. He just sat there watching the spider do its work. He followed, with his eyes, each time it made a turn around his body. 

He wondered what the outcome of this odd situation might be. But mostly, he wondered why he did not care what that outcome was to be. His sword remained free of webbing and at his side available to him in either eventuality. This was a good thing whichever way this turned out.

He was so tired but decided to stay awake and watch this creature complete its task. He could sleep when he was dead, eventually.