Awakening

The warrior admitted… Was it a defeat? No, it was not. A victory? No, it was not. The admitting resulted from the awakening. Being forgotten even by himself, he was incapable of getting strength to take a single breath, a common one, a painful one, the sole purpose of which would be to remind him how disfigured he was. Being thrown away in the canyons of the cursed soulless creatures, he had been waiting for the moment when his was to be smashed by his own honesty.
The tears dried up, the wounds were emotional signs of existence, the silence was springing out from the soul. But he was forceless. He didn’t want to, he didn’t have to. He chose his own destruction… Even, he, the warrior himself didn’t know where he arrived, where the borders of death were, and where the small path of patches towards darkness was.
From afar, now and then, he was hearing some words outspoken, some deeds unworthy, a sheer revelation of the stigma, and all of them were hunting to find him somewhere in the mountain ridges. He was running away in the caves of inconsistent fires, he was ceasing even the moment of the thought itself for the very purpose of not being seen, revealed, and consequently desired – by the sacrificial altar. By the pain whose subject he had been to, for millenniums.
The days passed by, years, eras, and what the warrior was doing was cherishing his thought. It was his thought, pure and lavish one. He neither wanted a day to rise, nor a night to fall down, he didn’t want to wait, to expect nor did he want to search and to beg. The only thing he wanted was a thought; a thought that would possess him… the one that would never give him away.
He recalls that it was a day. It was one of those ordinary days, not a special one for him. He raised his eyes towards the sky; it was a crystal clear sky, just like his soul. He tried to say something, but at the last moment he was prevented from doing so… Out of the steeple heights, right in front of his legs there came a prayer-book, with ornaments he had never seen so far. With a burdened thought and even heavier steps, he settled himself next to the prayer-book, meanwhile being afraid of the light of its cover and the gold key attached there.
He got immersed in thoughts. Whose might it be? Why was it here? What had its followers been like? What was the nature of the soul that had read psalms and prayers from its content? Its completeness was reflecting an image of existence. But, why was it closed? Was that key the key to it or it was a key to some casket for the opening of which there existed another prayer, or some magic? There were thoughts, questions, wishes; which of these would awaken the warrior?
He raised his trembling horrid arm and touched the prayer-book with the points of his fingers.
He couldn’t stop asking himself – whether? Why? What was it? What followed? He caught himself thinking the same way as before the existence, at the same time thinking of the armor and the apparel. Would he be able to do it? Would he have the wish to do it? He got afraid. No, he wouldn’t. Yes, he would.
However, that little piece of his, that he, himself, called a soul, started to pray. The warrior’s passion was aiming to somewhere. But it was neither aiming to a battle nor to victories and defeats, what it was aiming to was the spring. The warrior had taken a vow to not have wars and crippled ghosts, nor quests and worlds anymore. He had sworn to grant his entire existence. Not to everyone and not everywhere. But, it would be some day, somewhere and to someone. It would appear and present itself alone…
He again looked at the prayer-book. He didn’t want to torture his hermit soul with unknown enigmas. What he wanted was only to begin. There it was; he finally used the word that had a special pedestal in his cupboards: he had loved, he loved and he would love.
While touching the covers of the prayer-book, he felt some warmth. Whose warmth was it? His or somebody else’s; who was the one who wanted not to have it? ‘Don’t – he said to himself – stop asking yourself; grasp the moment that already looks like eternity.’ The edges of the prayer-book were covered in velvety gold, leaving a feeling of refinement. The parchment that was put there in order to make it strong, was one of the most beautiful ones that warrior had ever felt. There were lots of ornaments, seen and unseen, however familiar ones. It was for a pretty long time that the warrior was touching the cover as if he was trying by means of silence and blindness to find the narrated worlds, pains and passions which were on the prayer-book’s cover.
He put the prayer-book on the other palm of his hand, with the most gentle movements and touches ever used by him, and dictated by the little soul of his. He didn’t want that anything bad happened to the prayer-book. He was observing it with all senses which he called to help him, although they had also been thrown away on some out-of-the-way road which was dusty and marked with no sign. Was this an awakening or…
By taking the key, he wanted that the prayer-book told him what it was for, without causing any disturbances. When approaching it in order to see it better, he managed to find something encrypted. He started reading it word by word:
‘-If you know how, you will know why.’ What-How? What – Why?
It was just for a second that the key would have almost slipped of his gullied hand. And if this had happened, the warrior would have never been able to find it again. It was because the warrior was still standing on the edge of the abyss, determined to be taken.
The cleanest rag of his former precious apparel had been put on the most luminous spot that existed in the cave, and on it the warrior also placed the prayer book, in a silent and gentle manner. He wanted the night to pass by in order to be able find the answer to the key.
It was at the end of the day when he desired to have the prayer-book opened. To have the mystery continued.
But, the night didn’t bring him any sleep. It did it on purpose. And it was also the warrior who didn’t want to spend the night soaking himself into the deep fog. It was in his soul that the skills and secrets were coming, uninvited, and with great joy, shaking off the dust, and some of them the ashes also, intending to use their entire strength and power in order to help the warrior.
‘-If you know how, you will know why.’
Everyone was happy for having returned to the warrior without even asking him whether to do so. He didn’t have anything against. He was immersed in thoughts. Was this the awakening? No, there were no questions to be asked anymore.
‘Yes, my Master, this is the awakening.’
The sun beams had been already awaken and they were rushing to the hills in order be able to spread out their bright goblin before his Majesty came out. The warrior, exhausted by the awakening, started to touch himself in order to make sure that the pain was gone. However, he caught himself thinking? – ‘I haven’t made a decision, I do not know the answer; what does the enigma try to imply?’ He had no time to spend on anything that belonged to the past and that was subjected to destruction. In this awakening he was being brought on the wings of passion-complete, entire, clean, strong, hungry, nude and innocent one. It wouldn’t even let him mention his own name. It was driving him forwards, towards the prayer-book. As if it wanted with all its silence and fulfillment to say to me: ‘This is the spring that you have sacrificed so much for.’
The warrior got up, but this was the first time he did it with ease and eagerness. He was a few moments away from touching again the untouched and the unknown. While getting closer to that, for him still unknown but yet already experienced world, the lips of the warrior started to let out, at exact time, inarticulate sounds that were slowly transforming themselves into lines of a prayer – a prayer that was unknown to the warrior, something that he didn’t live with. There were legends floating and spreading in the air, whereas in the eyes of the warrior there were crystals spreading, and showing who the owner of the daylight was.
He took again the key in his hands, read the engraved text time and time again. However, he was sad. He didn’t have an answer to the enigma. It was because he was afraid of treason; afraid of non-existence. The warrior was saying to himself: ‘it is much better to be doomed to eternal non-existence, rather than to have another new heretic soul.’ While having these thoughts in mind, his lips were continuously repeating the prayer.
He took the prayer-book, again, in a gentle manner and with all the tenderness that he had in himself at that moment. It was with his sleeve that he wanted to wipe the dew away, assuming that it had been put there to wash the prayer-book’s face.
The sunbeams were refracting in the dew drops, giving the prayer-book a more mystical appearance. Going over the covers, meanwhile paying attention not to cause damage of any kind, the warrior kept on seeking for the answer. Why had he been the chosen one? Hadn’t they told him that he had been forgotten?
The end of the apparel’s sleeve slightly touched the key, and the key itself, with a roar of a wounded beast fell down in the mud. The warrior stopped. He lost his breath, started to stagger without having anything to lean on. His hand was still there, on the prayer-book, palsy, shaking. He couldn’t do anything. As if it wasn’t a part of his body.