The Return of the Sword

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The water had travelled a long and ancient journey, Andawyr mused as he dipped his hand into the stream and splashed his flushed face; mountain, sea and cloud, over and over, ever changing, ever the same. And though it shaped the land, it ran through his fingers unresisting. He gave a grunt of approval at the coolness it brought, then sat back, closed his eyes, raised his face towards the sun and took a long, slow breath. As it filled his lungs, the mountain air seemed to carry the sunlight through his entire frame. It mingled with the bubbling clatter of the stream and he felt the tension brought on by his too-rapid walking through the hills ease.

‘Simple pleasures,’ he said to the flickering shapes dancing behind his eyelids. ‘Simple pleasures. Being here is enough.’

It was no new thought, but it had as much meaning for Andawyr now as whenever it had first come to him. Not that he could remember when that had been, he reflected. It was as though he had always known the truth of this. But that could not have been so, for such a realization could only be attained after a great struggle. Or could it? Children often had it – that sureness of touch in their lives. Eyes still closed, Andawyr’s nose curled. He compromised. Perhaps the realization – the insight of the child – could only be rediscovered after a great struggle. Yes, that would do. He chuckled softly – he already knew that, too.

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