Lines

Pride

"My Prince, you must remember to avoid the plains. You cannot hide when you are in them, so you must hope that there is nothing from which you must hide." 

His face was painted white with lines signifying knowledge, wealth, and immense wisdom. But still his words felt hollow. What might force me to hide? What might threaten me enough where I would not dare fight and die but choose the shades of hiding?

"My Prince, your swings are great and true. But there are some things in this world we cannot best. You must take care to understand the battlefield from the battle. If you cannot possibly win in your mind, how can you win in the flesh?"

Those white lines moved against his cheeks, his mouth, his nose. His eyes remained stoic, remained fierce. He believes me to be a fool, he believes me to be a coward who would flee. I will not flee. This flesh of mine cannot be broken, the battlefield is mine for the taking; mind or not.

"My Prince, I see in your eyes that you do not heed my warnings. I see in your wandering gaze as it casts out to the horizon. My prince, I beg of you one thing. Do not go to the plains. We are men, we are not gods. You are no less mortal than me, our blood is warm and our heart beats strong. But it can be extinguished in one swift blow all the same."

What does he know of the blood beneath my skin? What does he know of a god and of man? He, who sees the light of the Sun and feels warmth. He, who draws in breath and feels fatigue, who must feast upon the kills of our brothers, who must exist as the mortal beholden to the life inside of him. I am not so weak, I am not so frail. Life for men can be snuffed out in a well-placed swipe of the blade, but I would break that very blade should it try to bury itself in me and have me swallowed by the dirt and sand beneath our feet. 

I am not for the sand to take, not after I drew myself from it. I am not for the dirt to reclaim, for it never truly claimed me before. I am not of beating heart and fragile mind. I am Prince of all that the sky observes, all that the Sun bakes, all in which the world culminates. I am eternal.

"My Prince, I weep for you."

The clouds were absent on the day the Prince took to the plains on the other side of the great mountain that carried the burden of home for him and his people. The mountain stood tall and combed the winds from across the sea. No one had ventured beyond the precipice it guarded. No one dared witness what the Sage had seen, his white lines adorned by years of strife. He stood tall and prepared after many a King and many a Prince took the mantle and guarded the home from the beasts that would threaten their home. 

The Sage - lined in more than the white paint but in the wrinkles time inflicted on him, the burden of wisdom shown in his countenance - drew the sands in his hand and blew a great screen of smoke and dust. He then draw in it the Prince and the plains beneath him. The King, aged beyond that of a warrior and now simply a witness to his son, watched in horror as the image defined itself in the sand flowing about the throne room. 

In the image the Prince was seen, heavy and powerful. The life he carried in him illuminated even the darkest caves, and yet his mind was corrupted by the great allure of the mystery within the plains. The Sage's tears mixed with the sand amidst the image to create the beasts that would challenge the Prince. 

His movements were great, his swings were true, despite being quite surrounded. A pride of beasts swarmed him and one by one he took them down. Their hides, leathery and full of sinew, could not bear the force of each slash, each stab, each blow. The Prince stood with his arms high as the Sun began to don its orange hue.

"Great Sage, you are worthy of all the knowledge that a man can hold. But fear not, I am no man. I am not for the plains to take. I am not for the minds of any mortal to advise, to understand. I grace this great place with my presence, and I cleanse it from its pain. I was born to do this, and in doing so I will ascend to the throne of the gods where I might sit and watch over and finally rest from such a great burden."

In his shouting and boasting, he drew an even larger crowd of beasts. The pride enveloped him and he fought as hard as he could. A bite here, a gash there, the Prince was chipped down until he felt every bit of his mortality. Alas, the leader of the pride who nearly doubled the size of its peers sank its fangs into the calf of the godly Prince. He sank to his knees and cursed the Sun that forsook him beneath the horizon. The pride soon feasted on what was the greatest Prince to stand atop the mountain. The Sage, having had the dream of his failure to sway the great Prince from this destiny, merely wept with the King as the image collapsed and returned to simple dust.