A short distance away stood a young draftee. He carried a large crossbow against his side,
swinging it gently. Nothing about the
boy seemed particularly special, save his fearful demeanor. The man, named Markus after the great warrior
Markus Orhelis of long-told fable, was breathing heavy, stress blatantly
evident to anyone that saw him. He had
watched as his best friend, whom stood beside him in the battle line, was
killed by an arrow nearer than a yard from himself. Markus was now terrified.
“Why don’t you get some rest,
sonny,” an older man from a neighboring farm said to him with pity. Markus looked at the speaker blankly. Several silent moments went by.
“Why did he have to die? That arrow just missed me; I should have been
behind it, not George,” he said, breaking the silence. Tears streamed down his face.
“Hey, boy, don’t cry. We’ve all got to join Remish in the silver
city up in the sky at some point or another.
Death is not the end, ho, it is just the beginning. Your life isn’t over now that your friend has
fallen. Fight on for George’s sake, in
his honor and memory press on.”
“I don’t think I can. George was my only companion. With both him and my parents dead I have
nothing left to live for.”
“You’re brave, my boy, more
brave than can be said of myself. You’ve
got a quiver of bolts to live for; you’ve loved to shoot since you were but a
wee farm boy. Look at the horizon. Is not the sincere beauty of a sunset strong
enough to put a tingle into your heart?
That’s what living is for, experiencing, doing what you love to do. Don’t just build yourself a wall to cry
behind. Live. For Remish’s sake live on.” Markus’s expression lightened.
“Thank you, Armand. I will.
After I take a long rest.” Markus
walked into his standard issue tent and fell into a deep yet tormented slumber,
unknowing that the man who would become his greatest living friend slept just a
few hundred yards away.
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