The Wound

I stood, pressing my hand against my side.  The wound I'd recieved had long since healed, but occasionally still pained me with a change of weather.  I glanced around, feeling as though I was in danger.  Pulling the hood of my black cloak over my head, I glanced down at the dagger that was fastened around my ankle and raised my bow, arrow in place.  1

There was no movement and I eased into a dark crevice of the mountain.  I eased the tension on my bow, still strung and ready, and sat back to wait out the long, cold night.2

My thoughts began to wander back to that night when I'd recieved my wound.  The warrior who was assigned to me had been covering that side.  When his duty called him elsewhere, he had called to me to tell me, but I had not heard, had not understood.  Left unprotected and unaware, the brutal blow had hit me, rendering me unconscious.  I had been completly worthless on the field for months, but the wound had finally healed and I'd made my way back out onto the battle.  3

The wound had only left me stronger.  I had learned not to rely on others.  It wasn't that I was angry with that warrior; he had done all that was right, but I had learned that I could be self sufficient.  I couldn't imagine going back to relying on someone else so much.  Being self sufficeint felt so much safer, so much more secure, and I felt so powerful.  4

I had since then tried to rely on others, but even my relying on them was as extra protection, not as the only protection.  And while I wasn't angry with that warrior, I knew that I could not trust him; even knowing that he'd be so much more careful not to leave me misunderstanding.5

But I just couldn't do it.  I couldn't go back to the army.  Things were different now.  It wasn't that I was angry, or even afraid... I'd just learned.  And grown.  And I wasn't sure I could handle fighting with others.  I'd fight on their side, but I would sleep alone.6