This
is the longest peace that our society has had in a long time. Children ran around in tunics and dresses,
looking like little versions of their parents.
Adults chatted and laughed, completing their daily errands. I nodded to my friends and co-workers as I
walked through the town as my Grecian tunic flowed around my knees. The smell of fresh bread filled the air,
floating all the way from the bakery at the end of the street. Hammers clanged against metal in the blacksmith’s
shop down the block. I browsed the shops
and booths lining the crowded streets, my signature bow and quiver strapped to
my back. Venders were shouting for
people to buy a certain product. Different
languages were being spoken all around me as I walked through the market, languages
that should have died along with the ancient cultures that they came from.
As
I came to the square in the center of town, three children caught my attention: a set of twins, a boy and a girl, and their
younger brother. They were so young,
naïve even. Their father was chasing
them around, the four of them weaving around the other people in the square and
the children screaming in delight. Never
in a million years did I think that I would end up having children, let alone
three. I shook my head, smiling, and
continued to walk to a training field, hearing the oh so familiar clashing of
swords and the thwack of arrows hitting their mark. That had been me once, working all day to
perfect my skills. To train so that I
could survive. Train so that I could
protect others like me, my family.
Stories
are told of our adventures, our victories.
I try to ignore them. They always
brought the nightmares and no matter how much time passed, the smell of the
burning flesh and the screams of the victims will never leave.
Many
of us have scars, even those who were young at the time. I have them.
Burn marks. They tried to break
me. To burn me. I remember my own flesh burning. Some of us view our battle scars as marks of
our bravery. I don’t. I hate them.
I hate those d*** scars. Bite
marks, burn scars, and the scars from swords, bullets, and daggers. I hate them all. I was helpless…weak. I swore to myself I would never know that
helplessness again. And I knew that I wasn’t
the only one that felt that way.
Once
the peace came, I trained even harder. I
pushed myself to the brink of exhaustion to ensure that I would never be the
same.
I
slid my bow off my shoulder and notched an arrow. I pulled the arrow back towards me, took a
breath, and released the arrow. I
watched the arrow as it whizzed through the air toward the target. I smirked as it hit the bull’s eye. I guess some things will never change.
