Waiting for the Call

There was an age when I was measuring time with my heartbeat, living and being bresent in every single one, streching them to be as long as a lifespan. And now it always seems I don't have enough time, now I measure it in days and weeks, years for my past, months for my future. And my present, that thin line between what it was and what is not yet, is streched to last so long.

I miss the sound of the battle, the rush of fire in my veins while I shout my word looking for the best enemy. I miss the feeling of clanging metal, the smell of blood and sweat.

I'm camping by the lake tonight, sharpening my sword in front of the fire. The winter is almost over, but I'm still waiting for it. I polish my armor, listening carefully: maybe I will hear the call of the battle tonight, maybe I will satisfy my fire.

I don't have a past anymore, I can't see my future anymore. I'm just here in this everlasting present, waiting for my next call, waiting for next battle, trying to stop the war within.

The ouzel days

These are the so called ouzel days, the days when nothing else ventures outside, nothing so stupid o so crazy as a blackbird to wander around.

Far away the snow is falling, but here it's just a cold sun and the iced waters instead of flowing channels. I'm enjoying all of this. I enjoy when the cold cuts your face and makes you bleed, like another punch, another fight.

When I was a child we were used to celebrate these days, it was the beginning of the crazy month when everybody was allow to behave like they were, not like they were supposed to be. It was the month it was possible to be myself. But then the mourning and the sorrow would come, everything back to the usual after the proper penance. I would pay for that month of freedom with weeks of restraints and sacrifices.

Now I don't celabrate anymore, I skip this part and focus on the penance, an endless period of sorrow to gain freedom I not always feel worthy of.

The ouzel days. Maybe it's time to celebrate again

Battle lust

Too drunk for sleeping. Or maybe just too aroused.

I can't go past that. Also if it's just training, I can't help the fact that fighting with her arouses me. I can't help but think how it would be touching her skin, her body, caressing it and feeling its heat instead of just hitting and pushing it. I know exactly how she looks at me, how she challenges me, how she wants me. I know her smile, her invitations, her teases, her skin flushed for the fight.

I can't help but imagine the same look, the same flushed skin, the same warm body against mine but in lust and not in a fight. I can't help but imagine and dream. But I know that she will ease her battle lust somewhere else, that is not my body that will give her release. I know her provocative glances will not lead to any private places.

I can't have her, I can't allow myself any possibility to go past this attraction knowing her better. I don't trust my body, but I trust my self control. I can just drown the lust in a stout and hope it will wash away my dreams. And I know that tonight I will dream of blue eyes and light hairs, not just a cliché, but her eyes and her hairs

Winter steps

Sometimes at dusk the clouds look like my mountains, far threes like hills hidden by the haze. I miss the feeling of the wood in winter, before the snow, the silence of the animals, just my breath and my steps resounding in the frozen soil.

I move my sight to the city, few buildings tha I can recognize in the mist, gods' temple for the human pride. Gods' places in a city of godless men. Now the temples of the Order are not in the cities anymore, just outside them. Not in the centre, never far away. Just for the people who belong.

From here I can see the city, exactly as from the clearings I was used to watch the village and the valley. I just miss my steps on frozen dry grass.

The spell

The armor hidden under a dark green cloack, the long blond hairs gathered in a pony-tail, suck a contrast with the dark eyes. It was my first real fight. We had known each other since we were children, we had been ignoring each other for all that time long. I just knew she was much skilled than me, in the art of magic more than with the sword.

It was all settled. I was supposed to lose, the slave was supposed to die. Probably I was just lucky enough to find the right spot between the armor plates to wound her before she managed to cast her spell. I won, I saved that slave, gaining not just his life but his freedom. Everthing was perfect, and I was rejoicing for my success.

We met again. I wonder if she had been planning it all the time long or it was just by chance. She had left the sword and the armor behind, not the green cloack. That time her spell got me. She didn't hit me badly, I wasn't even sure she did anything when I felt the diziness of her magic on me. I discover her spell only after a while, fighting against an other opponent, feeling what he was feeling. Since then, every time I hit someone, I hit myself. If I lose the fight, I lose; if I win, I lose. If my opponent is injured, I'm injured worse.

I wonder where is she now. Last time I had some news she was recovering froma really bad fight. The higher you climb, the more you can fall down. I wonder if after all these years the spell she casted can be removed, can be overpowered by a new healing one

Commitment

Several people lately have left my comunity. I'm sad about that, with some of them there has been some really bad fight before that. I feel helpless, in part is also my fault if they left. Some have moved and I wish them the best, but some are still around, complining that things are not working, that people expect to eat without get their hands dirthy in the fields.

Is it really like that? I know some of them worked a lot for the comunity, and I know exactly how frustrating it is when you have to start every day from scratch, with little help from the others and almost nobody thanking you. I get every day a lot of requests, of complains, I have the impression that nobody appreciate my work, nobody understand it.

I know how difficult it is. Sometime you get lost in your own complains and repressed desires. I'm lost every thime something which was working crashs and I have to fix it, or quite often try to build something new. It's hard, it's challenging, but most of the time it's just frustrating.

I asked to my comunity some more effort, the comunity is growing and we need to feed them. I hope some will commit, winning the indolence and the fear of getting involved

Every time I fight

I have fought over a woman once. No, more than once, always for the same woman. And then, suddenly, she choose another path, and all my fights, all the times I saved her, were just irrelevant. I wonder if now I would be able to fight with the same passion, with the same devotion. Probably I just need someone able to shake me and love me at the same time as she did.

I have fought so many times standing for other people, for their freedom, for they ideas. But sometimes I think I haven't fought enough for my ideals, for my freedom. I always manage to hurt nobody more than just some bruises. Every time I could choose, I hurted myself more than the others

I have fought for my life once. All right, more than once. But just one is the time I can't forget. Only the single time when I had to choose between two life: I choose mine, and I killed my opponent. Can I forget the eyes of a man who is dying by my hands? I can't forget. I can't forgive

Avoid, rather than check.
Check, rather than hurt.
Hurt, rather than maim.
Maim, rather than kill.
For all life is precious, nor can any be replaced.

That life was lost. I can't forget. I can't forgive. I can just learn from that, as every time, I can just grow for my mistakes.

If a man dwells on the past, then he robs the present. But if a man ignores the past, he may rob the future. The seeds of our destiny are nurtured by the roots of our past.

Every time I fight, I try to think first, to act only if I can't avoid, to hit only if I can't turn aside. And always try to understand, to be compassionate. And most of the time I end up fighting with my opponent instead of against them.

Boys don't cry

I remember that day, the cutting light of a winter morning. I remember the silence, the candel burning close to the bed all the night long. I remember the tears, the sobs of his son: had he forgot that boys don't cry?

I remember the slow pace behind him, the circumstancial words of the people, the signatures on the book. I remember the flags of a lost war, the eyes of the exiles come for the one who saved them. I remember his wife, so distant from all of that, in the proper dress for a widow; in the end she has been a widow for so many years before.

I remember the flowers, the red of the carnations not allowed inside because of the symbolism and how ugly was the contrast with the wood. And I remember he was above that, or in between the lines as always.

Sometimes I wonder how it would had be with him still here. I grew up, an orphan among the others, but somethimes I'm still convinced that he only had the answers, he only could point me the Way as so many times he did. My teacher, my father, my master, my conscience, my strenght.

He always told me that boys don't cry. I didn't cry that day. Not for him, never for him not to be at my side. Now I'm not a little child anymore and also if sometimes I'm tempted, after twenty years still I don't cry