Given
Posted: Wed Nov 02, 2005 6:37 am
In a dim light at the back of a small classrom, once, there was one who dared ask aloud, "what is a soldier that has no home?"
The response was swift, mechanical, precice. It was given from another who knew. A master of his times, of all times. Conflict, victory, vulnerability, defeat.
"A mercenary."
In this classroom was a struggle like any other. Between knowledge and ignorance, student and teacher.
"Then what is a mercenary who has no price?"
Another answer was not so readily forthcoming.
The wanderer had seen four hundred seasons of war, each conclusion passing into the next, each result the following cause. He'd had sides, friends, weapons, enemies... Twice he had a home, he loved and he lost.
Everything gained was destroyed, except in fleeting, bittersweet memory. Only then the conflict would come to a close.
But this battle was over.
His blades, inherited from an adopted father deceased and unknown had been bathed in more blood than any good man should have ever seen in any lifetime. Both bore down, torn from a nightmare late in the darkness of night, nearly upon his wife's very life. The flames that carried her anger were not the only powers beyond control.
The loved, and the lost, were to be sheathed again as they were above a fireplace, in a home that destroyed the shattered and burning images of the ones he failed so many years ago.
Whispers in the depth of memory offered a promise, one given among others so close so long ago.
"A home for peace." For the two at his side, and those beside him in memory.
The response was swift, mechanical, precice. It was given from another who knew. A master of his times, of all times. Conflict, victory, vulnerability, defeat.
"A mercenary."
In this classroom was a struggle like any other. Between knowledge and ignorance, student and teacher.
"Then what is a mercenary who has no price?"
Another answer was not so readily forthcoming.
The wanderer had seen four hundred seasons of war, each conclusion passing into the next, each result the following cause. He'd had sides, friends, weapons, enemies... Twice he had a home, he loved and he lost.
Everything gained was destroyed, except in fleeting, bittersweet memory. Only then the conflict would come to a close.
But this battle was over.
His blades, inherited from an adopted father deceased and unknown had been bathed in more blood than any good man should have ever seen in any lifetime. Both bore down, torn from a nightmare late in the darkness of night, nearly upon his wife's very life. The flames that carried her anger were not the only powers beyond control.
The loved, and the lost, were to be sheathed again as they were above a fireplace, in a home that destroyed the shattered and burning images of the ones he failed so many years ago.
Whispers in the depth of memory offered a promise, one given among others so close so long ago.
"A home for peace." For the two at his side, and those beside him in memory.