‘The Weeping Warrior’: a story by Betsy Duff

The Weeping Warrior


 

Out of the darkness, they returned.

The footsteps of 100,000 warriors marched across the ruins of the Capital.

The fight was over.

Wiping the sweat from their brow, one warrior swooped low and scooped up a small stone, a piece of rubble, from the ground, lifting it upwards until they and the stone were about five feet tall.

Rubbing the stone between their index finger and thumb, the warrior examined it with a cat-like fixation, looking for evidence of its former identity, its former powers.

And then, with a dramatic flick of the forearm, the stone was catapulted into the distance, into nothingness. Lost among the debris, this stone bore no significance to the warrior. And remain insignificant it shall. That was the right of the warriors. For the debris had once been the foundations of a ghastly rumour that spread through humankind like a disease.

The sun rose from beneath the ruins and sung a song with golden rays of sacred victory. A war, one fought for thousands of years, was finally over. The victors were about to find truth for the first time. They had been fighting their entire lives and now the chains had been broken.

Peace had been restored on Planet Earth. What came next would be up to God. But the warriors knew that their love alone could shatter a thousand cities and out of the concrete they could build a temple. They could do that. Indeed, they had the power now. But for today, this was enough. Now was the time to rebuild the Capital. This time for the better. This would be their empire of love.

One warrior watched on from the back of the throng, their eyes glistening as the sun stretched out her fluorescent arms to span the horizon ahead.

If you wish to find truth, you must first accept the journey, they recalled. Their ancestors had written this some centuries ago. The warrior fell knees-first to the ground and wept, lamenting at what a joy it would have been for their ancestors to have seen what they saw this morning. It was a bittersweet victory, they felt. It was a war with no premature casualties. A war of words. A war for love. And love won. But the deaths of those who lived too early on to witness this triumph were no lessΒ tragic.

As the troops journeyed on, the weeping warrior looked skyward. The sky was red. A burning sensation arose from inside the warrior’s lower abdomen. Suddenly – much to their bedazzlement – their soul lept out before them, thrusting out each limb and dancing to the beat of the warrior’s heart. The beat pulsated from beneath the earth, through the warrior’s blood.

The tears dried and the warrior’s face softened.

Now, they understood. Now, they saw it through the eyes of their soul.

Every warrior on this path carried the strength and love of their ancestors. They were there all along. In the fabric of the warriors’ skin, in the stories of their minds, in the swelling of their hearts, in the fullness of their lungs, in the warmth of their breasts and the resonance of their voices.

This was the history they would make for their children.

 

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