Tribute: A Warrior of LifeThe Fallen One

                                   
                                                          Tribute
                                      A Warrior of Life; The Fallen One


          The warrior lay gasping for air, internally. The days became a fevered blur of images, of battles won and battles lost. How long will he last only His maker knows? He sees himself standing alone in a bay of bodies all over the battlefield, the taste of blood in his mouth, the tired aches of his muscles and the sweet stench of death in his nostrils.
          He hears in the distance voices and one pulls at the strings of his now failing heart. He remembers. He loves the voice and tries to reach it, but is having trouble moving among the multitude of bodies, spread out all over the ground before him and from the abyss of pain and agony. he hears her voice again and a smiling image appears before him, assuring him that all is well, she is there.
          To him, she may be but a dream, to her an eternal nightmare , one she has lived for so long. She sits by his side in prayer and hope of his recovery, but in her heart she knows, his God had been good to him and favored him amongst many. He was still alive, well beyond the appointed time; he had cheated death many times in the couese of his life.He lingers, internally, the war between Life and Death continues incessantly, and like any other war, any other battle, other day, other hour, other minute, other second, every second, fight , for  Its' day to become the conqueror.
          There is laughter in the smoke filled room. he remembers the mead, wenches to the right , wenches to the left, but he no longer thirsts for any. Then he remembers her face and that of small children that looked up to him, who wanted to be a part of his life, but, they didn't understand warriors like him, there is no such creature. No amount of guilt can ever change that. Guilt he had few, regrets many more than he cares to admit to.
          He opens up his eyes and sees her, he looks around, no one else there, he weakly smiles at her. He cannot speak, but amazingly his eyes start to weep. Now it is between His maker and him. He knows his moves, but he is older, his battle scars ache, his body tired of all he has gone through; the countless battles, the numerous brawls, and the memorable nights and days of frolic,and lustful indulgences and debauchery and finally, the years of , but so brief years, of happiness.
          The highest Magus has given all he can. Alchemists and Shamans from the Four Corners of the world were brought in to restore the fallen one. They worked their magic and wielded their combined forces together, but the warrior fell into the spell of his illness and began to rant and rage. His now confused mind planned his escape from the dungeon cell he found himself in. He schemed, conived, and bribed his delusions. His plan was in motion.
          Now it is between this mighty warrior, death, and His maker. The voices became familiar,and he was not dreaming. He knew the voices and the voices brought tears to his eyes , once again. It could not be. It was just a dream. A dream he dreamt many a night for a millenium.
          His failing heart told him otherwise, he did not want to be a decorated hero, a champion of the world, just, the man, the spirit that once went to war and could not come back. AND when all is said and done, good or bad, he wanted most, was for all to know that he loved them and to forgive him. He knew in his weakened heart, but his mind and body will not let him accept defeat.
          He's never know fear, maybe this time he did. There is something , somone he is fleeing from. There can only be one recognizeable fear, and that is, to care. In the presence of his beloved ones, he is a trapped fierce man, fighting death fearlessly and carefree. His eyes hold no love, no warmth, no fear, just selfish wanton rebellion, anger, and denial. His spirit fights to leave, but his mind and body porlongs his capture.
          His beloved knows well, the time is near and the hope and dream of him spending a split second with his family is slim to none. She will be the one to say the words and free his spirit and lead it, steer it , in the direction towards His maker. He is giving his last fight, raising the hopes of many, but a few. The end is near.
          Death cannot laugh or revel, and feels no triumph, he has earned Its' respect and admiration. The warrior has been the most cunning and fierce to the end. So he will grant him this time, the last fight, and a glorious victory. Go, go and be free. For once in our existence be free to laugh again, love , feel no pain or anguish and be loved. Be free as the winds that blow throughout the Four Corners of the earth. Go, go and hurt no more... and rest with the knowledge that you will be remembered always, fondly, lovingly, with respect even from your enemies.
          He fought to the bitter sweet end. To his last dream state breath, and as the sun set, no more worry, no more battles to fight, no more illusions and no more hurt.
          She held his hand and as the fire and light faded from his eyes, he told her, " Tell them I love them." and at last, He is free...
          Farewell Mighty Warrior, may we be amomg your ranks when our time comes to put down our shields and arms and go home...

                                                by Helen Rosario Gonzalez- Gutierrez

Dedicated to Wayne Richard Gutierrez
January 5, 1953 - January 26, 2008