A warriors tears should never spill. He reminded himself as he caressed and poured water over the new bruises formed over the old. Or battlescars as his father would call them. He bit his lips hard enough so the centre of pain would be there instead of where he touched. After another defeat while sparring, the 11th time specifically as his father called out, he had called him weak, a disgrace. A disgrace to his nation, to his father, to the Walter name. Pulling him up harshly by the hand as he dared to let out a whimper despite himself. He could see the fury, the disappointment, the shame. The shame that he had to call him his son.
After all, Shaun Walter was a fearless warrior. A proud name to engrave on the list that carried men like him. His father, grandfather and more. At the mere age of 15, he had already learned that he was the only splash of black in their golden, spotless pedigree of glory. But the great commander of Illèa never gave up. Train hard and long until his scrawny little boy could grow up to be a man, a heartless predator that was his plan and that was the motion he was putting Blake through.
"Mercy is for the weak who can't handle that death is another part of life."
"Men never die on the battlefield. They become immortal."
"The only purpose of your life is to serve your nation. Your life doesn't belong to you, it is already taken."
"You hold no importance to me if you can't look someone in the eye and kill them."
"I don't care if you are the best in your ranks. The enemy that lurks beyond these safe walls are far more real than the child's play you're in."
He could hear father's voice ringing in his ears.He wanted nothing more than to be the son that his father expected him to be. But while his heart wanted nothing more to get back up, his body refused after hours of swinging that sword he could barely carry. He tried, he would always try if that meant the look on his father's face that showed what a waste of time he was would disappear for a moment. He would always try. His father told him that to be a great warrior he had to have both patience and fury, both ice and fire. He had the storm, he didn't have the calm that came before it.
The ripples in the pond beside him, he looked down and he could see disappointment in them too. Every drop of water creating an array of circles. This was supposed to be beautiful to anyone but Blake didn't have the slightest knowledge of what he is supposed to do of beauty. Sighing and sitting beside a pond wasn't going to help him in any way. He had wasted too much time only to clean himself up. That was only a deed of luxury. He didn't need to clear himself up of all remains because they would just be there again tomorrow. So he got up still carrying his clothes that still contained dried blood.
The pond had some clear ground around it. He didn't quite understand how it formed here. The fact that no one came here. This was much deeper into the woods that was both dark and dense. After all, this was the jungle that separated almost 4 nations. He had found this after hours of wandering, then he couldn't just not come here when he needed to be with himself and his thoughts. He was this late to go home but he knew his father wouldn't care, he only cared if he was up for training the next morning. With that in mind he proceeded to go through the familiar dark path he had memorized. Unrecognizable by anyone other than him. The path that was filled with trees and unknown bushes and only his footsteps.
His sword still in the slot swinging from his back as he started to go back to his home. Which was a couple of kilometers away. His father said walking long distances can sometimes ensure how long you can stay alive in combat. Alone in the dark, he wasn't afraid because that feeling had been pulled out him since he was born or maybe he wasn't born with it. But he had to be cautious. Cautiousness is the one of the many things a soldier must aquire to ensure their survival.
