I curse you with ten thousand years of life! Sounds like a blessing doesn't it? But I'm not done yet. You are now incapable of doing any harm to ANYONE ever again except under two conditions. You are actively defending your OWN life, you are actively defending an innocent's life. Good luck. -- Anon Guest
Year One:
Sword and dagger alike failed to hit. Fists stopped short of their intended victims. Arrows missed their target. Even words meant to injure pride failed to be said.
This was hell.
Those who turned against him found weapons biting their bodies or words injuring their pride, but only long enough to make them stop. Only just enough to allow him his escape.
The dictator known as Amory Chanler was lucky to escape with the clothes on his back.
Year Five:
He was growing accustomed to manners, and had grown used to the rules surrounding his means of harming others. Dictator no more, he had sold his crown. Sold his fancy armour. Even traded his legendary blade for something far more utilitarian. He kept a shield. It made things clearer.
He could not, as he learned, steal from the needy. Stealing from the wealthy had its own perils. Earning things was still foreign to him, and uncomfortable. He foraged for his meals.
Year Nine:
He'd got in the way of the bomb, because he knew the curse would not let him die. He hadn't thought about it as a kind act, only that he would prevent nightmares by doing so.
The unhelped dead plagued his dreams. Those he could have assisted, but bypassed. Those he could have defended, but left to their fates. Amory had learned not to let them be.
The bomb hurt, this was true. So too did having his bones and innards knit themselves back together. Some parts of him just... grew back. The quicker part was always enough to give him back basic function. The rest of it grew back slowly.
Stupid curses.
What shocked him, this time, was gratitude. The people he saved, by and large, had little to spare. Yet they gave what they could. Shelter here. A meal there. The next harvest. Some patches for his armour. A new sword beat out of an old ploughshare.
And... company. People glad to see him. People who knew his story and passed it on. The warrior cursed with life. Defender of the innocent. Protector of the weak.
That was... new.
That felt... good.
Year Twenty-four:
A lone warrior guards the only pass. Just wide enough to be blocked by a single man. No arrows can fell him, though plenty have struck him through. No sword can kill him, though plenty have sliced his body to ribbons. No missile can squash him. Cannons fail to strike him.
His name is Amory Chanler, and he has vowed to guard this pass and all beyond it from the aggressors. Fire fails to burn him completely. Ice will not still his blade. Hundreds have fallen to his blades, and he has blunted or broken many on the attacking forces. He has picked up many more from the fallen. He cannot be stopped.
A peaceful realm remains peaceful, this day. And the next. For a week, for a month, the vile army attempted to get past his defense. Until they turned away for a better, easier target.
And then, because he could not allow any victims in his awareness, Amory harried the retreating troops. Poisoning many. Killing others when they needed to take their rest. Slaughtering the guards outside the leader's tent so that he could end their leader, too.
All in the defense of the innocent.
Year One Hundred and Thirty-six:
A warrior walks through a city thronging with people, and finds a small child who was crying and alone, and abandoned.
"I don't have much," said the warrior. "What I have, I can share. What I know, I can share, too. Will you come with me, away from here?"
The child shrinks away. Scared of the scars. Staring at the sword.
"I understand. I'm not the prettiest picture. Here." A pack of rations. Bread, meat, cheese, and some dried peas porridge. After a moment to think, he also added a full waterskin. "Food for a day, if that's all you'll take."
The warrior backed away. Keeping watch as the child ate. Making sure nobody stole what little they had.
The child said, "What'd you mean, you'll share what you know?"
"I know many a place that'd be kind to a child of the gutters. It may not be an easy life, but you'll be wanted and treasured all the same."
The child looked back at the wooden crate and rags that had been their only shelter. "Reckon I ain't got an easy life now. You show me an' I'll see."
A small and filthy hand found warmth inside the scarred one.
"No need to fear," said the warrior. "I will keep you safe."
Year Five Hundred and Eighty-three:
A man has been working on the building since it started. First laying the foundations and now, adding room after room after room. Accommodations. When he isn't laying stone upon stone, he is building beds or making clothes.
There are always more who need.
Some are hale enough to help, but there are also those who need more than he does. The world seems to churn out misery. The rich get richer, as the song says, and the poor get - children.
There is only so much one man can do. But two kind hands build a shelter that's free for those who cannot afford rent and food. Those who grew better lives as a result remember, and pay it forward. They choose not to charge so much for the worth of their shelter. They choose to give to those who have nothing.
Two kind hands save ten souls. Ten save a hundred. One hundred save millions. Kindness can spread like a virus, given the right conditions.
And in the places where it does not flourish... in walks a warrior.
Year Nine Thousand, Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine:
The one who bestowed the curse finds their former victim. A man once known as Amory Chanler. The curser and cursee face each other. One ageless, the other a network of scars and new flesh.
"Have you learned something?" said the curser.
"I learned that immortality's no feast hall," said Amory. "And kindness is more effort than cruelty. I still don't understand how cruelty is valued when kindness is swept away."
"I've lived for thousands of years, and I still haven't unriddled it," said the curser. "Do you want more time, or are you done?"
"I've had enough. For sure. I would like to die, in good time."
"When you are ready, all you need to do is say my name, and the words free me. It will be done."
Year Ten Thousand and Five:
It had taken longer than necessary to put his affairs in order. A warrior who has battled too long finds a place with a nice view. There are flowers. There are birds. There are clouds drifting softly through the skies.
There are butterflies and bumblebees wobbling through the gentle breezes.
A warrior puts down his sword for the last time. Doffs his armour. Sets down his shield. He makes himself comfortable on the grassy meadow. He prepares to breathe his last.
"Free me, Wraithvine," he said, and all that was left was dust.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Fyletto]
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