Hermit

There once was an old man in a cave. He was the keeper of an ancient and powerful sword gifted by the gods themselves. A thousand years ago, the heavens cracked open and poured forth a prophecy: when the world needs a hero, he shall seek out the holy weapon and defeat its keeper in single combat. That blade will be used to vanquish the Great Dark One and banish its spirit from this realm in a glorious battle to be remembered in the ages to come.

Well, a thousand years is a long time.

The hermit peeled his eyes open. A bat chittered and groomed itself on his ceiling. He watched it twitch and chirp. A squirt of guano splattered on his forehead. The old man sighed.

He washed the grey muck away in the Pool of Omniscient Sight. Out of spite, the pool showed him images of anuses and defecate. The old man apologized and asked for some updates on the nearby kingdoms.

King Charles of Lionhead was meeting with his royal mages to discuss growing discontent among the serfs. The prevailing solution was to transform any dissidents into rats.

Baron Klingston was preparing for battle. The royal armorer was boring another hole into the breastplate straps. Klingston himself was preoccupied with a wedgie that refused to cooperate.

As for the woods beyond the cave’s mouth, a stranger was fast approaching. His furs were stained with blood, his boots caked with miles of dirt, his beard gnarled and grizzled. A sword hung low on his belt, its grip worn by a lifetime of violence.

The old man sighed.

The stranger stopped at the cave’s mouth. A cold breeze played at the cloak’s edges. The hermit shuffled out and squinted in the sunlight.

“I come for the holy blade,” the stranger said.

“Go home.”

“I have no home. I was banished from Klingston’s barony and spent many years training under King Charles’ personal swordsman. I have spent the better part of my life preparing for this duel. I shall not fail.”

“Fine, fine. But can you return tomorrow? I had a bad morning.”

“I traveled three days and three nights to seek your abode. I cannot turn back until my prize has been won.”

“Yes, yes.” The hermit sighed. “Will you at least allow an old man one night’s rest before his departure from this plane? I would be glad to provide lodging and I have no lack of rations.”

The stranger thought for a moment. He threw back his hood to reveal a chizeled face and hair the color of wheat ripe for harvest. The hermit felt a stirring in his gut which he had not felt for a thousand years.

The stranger nodded.

“Come.” The word was a strangled whisper.

Wine was drunk, food shared. The stranger told his tale and the old man listened until the last word gave way to silence.

Morning arrived with the sound of bat wings. The stranger rose from the cot and ushered the damn thing outside. He laced his boots and took a whetstone to his sword.

“I suppose you wish to begin that duel,” the hermit sighed.

“I suppose it would be an apt time for it,” the stranger said. “But would you allow a young man another day’s rest?”

“Take all the time you need.”