This is a series of stories I wrote to inspire myself, and encourage others, both fighters and consorts.

Why I fight So Hard

It is hot, only the kind of soupy hot that Indiana gets in the summer. The kind of hot humidity that makes you wish you had gills. I am covered in sweat by just putting my armor on. Sweat is literally running off my nose.

With good humor one gentle says, "Better get used to this humidity, this is what Indiana is like in the summer. Not like what you're used to up North".

I reply with a smile, "I wouldn't know about humidity, what with Michigan being surrounded by five lakes". It gets a laugh, and I finish armoring up.

We start fighting, and exchange a series of strenuous blows. I feel good, ready to fight more. After a brief rest, I take the field again.

But by the end of that fight, I am breathing hard. "No one else seems to be working this hard", I think. But pursuing those thoughts down that path lie darkness and ruin. I push them away. After another break, I take the field to do some melee work. We have a few short passes.

By now, my heart is ripping along like a triphammer, and I feel dizzy and faintly sick. I am soaked through with my efforts. "Just admit it. You're not 20 anymore. Quit, go sit down and stop for the night" says the voice from the darkness. This is an old argument between he and I. But I can't quit.

"To whom much is given, much is required. And for those who have been given more, even more will be asked", is my standard reply, from the Book of the Doctor*.

"So? No one will fault you if you take it easy. Everyone knows what you've been through"

"But I will know. It's easy to be 'foremost in battle' when things are at their best. Swords are forged in fire, not mother's milk".

He has no answer for that, and I slowly walk to my drink and drink until my belly is full.

I take the field again for more melee work. This time I command a lance of warriors. We do better, but are all still killed. I remove my helmet, and let the air in, but it is so water-laden it brings no relief. So I drag my feet to my chair. It takes all my effort to move my feet forward one step at a time. I am spent, and hang my head, close my eyes.

This time the darkness speaks of the unfairness of it all, and gives a litany of valid reasons to stop. I listen, and see the cool logic behind the argument. I stop for a while and drink from its cool waters, and it feels good to take solace in the sorrow.

Head hanging low, I open my eyes, and see the chain affixed to my foot, the chain I fixed there as a vow to my Lady. I wish it were a chain of gold, due to the love I bear for her, but practicality says that it remain a chain of iron. Riches are not for those who spend their days in good coat armour, seeking valiant deeds of love. The chain speaks, and I listen. Then I speak to the darkness.

"How many times did my lady wish to quit her troubles, and could not? How many burdens did she bear for me, out of love? How have I repaid that? I made a vow. How much does your vow mean to you? It is always easier to follow a vow when there is no resistance. I wear chains of iron around my foot and neck, both for duty. "

I arm myself again, and fight once, twice. I am absolutely spent, gasping for breath and fighting off the waves of dizziness. Streams of sweat coat my face and drench my clothing. I am fine as long as I keep a knee on the ground. Standing invites sleep, however. It takes several tries to remain upright. I walk to a group of nobles, and finally take a seat.

A man and woman are speaking about fighting, and the woman prods the man about fighting some more. He asks her to fight him, and she equivocates.
"I respond best to direct requests", he says. He's a fencer, and knows I am a Warder. I reply, "give me five minutes, and I'll fight you". He laughs, turns to the woman, and says, "now THAT is the kind of direction I like!"

He may like it, but I am burning with agony. The darkness is screaming defeat in one ear, and my chain whispers duty in my other. I choose duty. I close my focus down to a narrow goal, this of walking back on the field. It takes all my reseves. I walk slowly, drinking more fluid, trying to slow my breathing and regain enough energy for one more fight.

But I can't. My body finally gives out, a flogged horse given one lash too many. I apologize to the man I promised to fight, and finally begin to remove my armour.

Why don't I quit? I can't. My chains of love and duty stay me.

* Luke 12:48

Created: 27 OCT 07