Without you, I would never have known how to hold my own. I say this now because what you had initially allowed me to be the most efficient and tactical version of myself. You gave me a strong sense of how to hold out on the battlefield, how to wield blades as easily as toy swords and never miss my shot when throwing my knives.
You taught me my stances, the positions of my sword, the determined thrust behind every strike. I remember even now to narrow my eyes, tilt my head slightly to the right, the blade poised between my fingers in preparation for a swift throw. Observing it as a it soared through the air, puncturing through the sack dummy across the courtyard. Grinning to myself and triumph, watching you tut from afar.
My 'best' was never adequate enough for your tastes, but as I reflect back on this - I know now that it was merely a technique you used to fuel my determination in order to impress you, and in the process, improve my skills. At only fourteen, you were mildly intrigued by my abilities yet you were never keen on taking a Breeish child under your wing and training her to the very best she could fathom. To cherish her ability, to help her hone these newfound skills for better rather than worse. Yet you taught me the way of the sword, and guided me in picking a favourite.
You showed me how to muffle my enemies before a serene slitting of their throat, to wait only in the shadows, to pick off my targets one by one as opposed to running head-first into the horde, screaming wildly with my sword held high. You let me in on your tricks and secrets, your maneuvers which soon crafted my own unique style. You rewarded me with better equipment, suited to my needs and enhance what I was already becoming.
You were an old fellow, the sort of man with a scar to commemorate every scuffle or battle you had endured, tracing each indentation with your finger and listing off the places in which they were received. I'd stare up at you with green eyes glazed, wondering just how heroic you were. But despite your gruff, stoic attitude - with little time for emotional nonsense - you knew how to braid my hair in a practical fashion and tend to my bloody grazes: wiping the rogue tear off of my cheek, before telling me to get up and embrace the pain. For it would act as a fortification.
You watched me grow, much more than my parents ever did or could. For I was always tagging behind you, shrouded by your shadow, unable to quench my thirst for your teachings. Surging into my later teen years, you agreed that the best option would be to put my skills to good use. To abandon the life of a simple farm lass to pursue a profession in putting my own life at risk, in the place of an innocent in need of my help. You showed me gratitude, you crafted a small, naive being into a woman who would gladly lay strewn in the way of danger to save a comrade.
Though I lost another father, when you passed.
It never occurred to me that you would die 'normally', with little glory. I expected you to die in the heat of battle, taking a sword to the gut or an arrow to the chest. But never this. Never did I suspect that you would be swept up by old age, tucked in tattered sheets, pale face aglow with the flickering of the nearest candle. Like the wax, you had melted away as I entered the tiny abode, greeted first by your grieving wife, ducking my head underneath the low frame of the doorway and spying you laying there. Already deceased. Because I was too late.
I wasn't allowed to see anybody after meeting my husband. I begged on my knees in front of him, just so that I could see you one last time. Though I never did.
Because you were already gone.
