Donald plodded up the track.
Ran calloused hand through thinning hair.
He had a lot of work to do,
For which he didn't care.
His was not the life of dreams.
The graft was hard, the days were long.
No bard would ever pen his name,
Nor tell of him in song.
Then from a stand of scrubby trees,
He heard a sound like clattered pans,
So he went to see what made it,
And maybe lend a hand.
The sight was unexpected.
A man stood in his underwear.
About his feet was armour plate.
He couldn't help but stare.
The man looked up, embarrassed.
Then sat down on the sod.
He hid his face behind his hands,
And then began to sob.
'What ever is the matter?'
Asked Donald in a caring tone.
'I have failed everyone I know,
And never can go home.'
Donald sat beside him.
Put a hand upon his shoulder.
He looked the age of Donald's son,
Or perhaps a little older.
'Tell me everything that's passed.
They say two heads best one.
Between us we will surely find,
Just what needs to be done.'
The man gave up his sobbing,
Then sniffed and took a breath.
'The people of my village.
They sent me on a quest.'
Donald had, since just a lad,
Dreamed of a hero's life.
Instead he'd spent it toiling,
For his nagging thankless wife.
'At the start it was exciting,
My friends and I sought glory.
But as the nights got colder,
One of our band got poorly.'
'We carried on regardless.
He got more and more unwell.
Then one day as we galloped on,
Right from his horse he fell.'
'We'd set out with a wealth of food,
But damp and mould got in.
We dumped it just to save the weight,
But got very weak and thin.'
'When Peter died, morale was low,
We mourned our friend of course.
But none could say they were not glad,
To feast upon his horse.'
'By now we really didn't know,
Which way we should be going.
A pack of wolves were tracking us,
And then it started snowing.'
'When sunlight woke our camp,
Bartholomew was gone.
We knew the wolves had got him,
And so we hurried on.'
'We now were two.
Between us not a word was spoken.
Lost and hungry, free of hope,
Our spirits had been broken.'
'A noise one night did wake me,
So I got up to see.
My last and only living friend,
Was hanging from a tree.'
Donald's eyes, already moist,
Released a single tear.
He fought the welling feelings.
He couldn't stand to hear.
It made him see his life of toil,
In a wholly different light.
Rather more a blessing,
And rather less a plight.
Donald took him by the arm,
And pulled him to his feet.
'You're coming home with me,'
He said, 'There's plenty there to eat.'
'Your village don't deserve you,
But still they must be told,
Of all your band did sacrifice,
And all that did unfold.'
'So once you're washed and rested,
And you've had your fill of meat.
I'll take you to my village.
There's a bard with whom you ought to speak.'
Donald helped him all the way,
He almost had to carry him.
Adventure sounds so tempting.
But truth be told, it's grim.