I steadied my breath, gazing upon the wild animal devouring the wild grass to fulfil their bellies. With steady arms, relaxed yet also tensed as I pull back my long bow with all my puny strength.
An arrow slotted within place, ready to fire to my desire. I flinched as my fingertips scream in pain. Yet I ignored that feeling to focus on my prey.
An arrow, a release, and a will are all it needs to end a life. Such is the deer before me.
"Steady, boy. Steady."
My father whispered to my ears, his hands placed upon me as he guided me in my aim, his hands firm and stable in their movements. Will I ever be just as skilled as him?
"It's in your sight."
I nodded to his words, feeling empowered by his words of comfort. My fingers loosed as the arrow released from the bow. Through the eerie wilderness, it went, as it slashed through bushes and rain alike.
Birds screeched, as did a deer mourn its death. The last rebellion against its inevitable death.
"I... I did it?"
I look at the deer that is soaked from the wound caused by my arrow, my arrow. Half in disbelief as I hit my target. I spun around as I couldn't hide my smile, which was wide open. I was jumping up and down like a rabbit.
"Look, dad. Look!"
My arms were wide open as I drove into my father's chest, where I thought my father was. A hug was just what I needed, a father's love.
But before I even noticed, he was gone. There was no father, nor was there a mother. It was me, only me, with a dead deer that stained my olive-skinned hands.
"Dad? DAD!?"
A hand reached out as he tried to grasp the invisible, what was not there. The child faulted to the ground, dismayed as he's left alone…. All alone.
.
Trent abruptly rose from his dormant state, his arm outreached into the distance, as if he was trying to grasp deeply onto something. But nothing, he soon realised that it was happening again. That repetitive dream keeps resurfacing.
The diminutive figure scratched his eyes as he tried to awaken his still sleepy eyes. But when that happened, a pain hit him profusely, as he pressed against the side of his forehead by his absolute instinct.
He has a terrible headache, that much he was sure off. But still, in his bad state, Trent tried to make sense of what occurred. Memories hit him like a lightning strike as he remembered the knight trial, the fight, the campfire, and the pursuit.
A gasp sounded as his eyes popped out.
But a coarse voice called out near him. "At ease, soldier."
Trent stopped his state, his vision became more pristine as he could finally see his surroundings. He was on a makeshift bed, open space around him enclosed in light cloth. Oh, he's in a tent.
He looked at the speaking figure. How could he have not recognised him earlier?
"Com… Commander Deryk."
Trent pushed a hand on his forehead, and though his vision is clear once more, his brain still has that screeching pain.
"You well?" The commander asked, standing up from his seat as he went to a nearby barrel.
"Yeah..." Trent replied in his most earnest tone, though there was not much substance to his words.
Deryk came back and arrive at the bedside, arm outreach with a cup in hand. "Drink."
The injured Trent was a bit slow in his reaction like he is contemplating whether he should accept it. But he soon grabbed the cup, though he didn't drink it.
There was an awkward silence between the two as they all seemingly didn't know how to continue the conversation. The commander only occupied the silence by grabbing a chair nearby, placing it in Trent's direction, before sitting on it.
"Just then you were…"
Trent rose his palm outward as he indicated for the commander to stop. The figure shook his head as he stared down at his commander's eyes.
"What happened?"
The commander breathed out as he realised, he had treaded into dangerous territory. Not to continue discussing then.
"You got hit bad. Straight to the head."
Trent only zoned out in his focus as he now understood why there was such a devastating pain in his head. He took a blow to the head.
"And the trial?"
Deryk has a smile resting on his face, though it was more intimidating than friendly due to his scar. "Here, a symbol of the Elite"
The commander passed a pin to Trent. "You've made it, you have passed."
Trent only starred into the pin.
Deryk got up from his seat as he cracked his back, stretching to relieve him of his pain. He walked to the exit of the tent with measured steps.
"When you're feeling better, go to your tent. Cause I might not have a bed for tonight."
.
It was then Trent realised that he was resting in commander Deryk's temporary residence. Why wonder the tent so massive, it was something only reserved for people with an important status.
But then again, Trent looked at the pin that Deryk bestowed upon him. He too was important, if only slightly.
Trent wanted to slumber back into the comfy bed that he is resting upon, but he just didn't feel quite right to enjoy a sleep in another's bed. Not to mention that his commander might not have a bed to sleep in if he doesn't leave.
Slowly, but stiffly, Trent got his feet placed on the ground. His head still aching but it was bearable, enough to make him recognise his surroundings. With small steps, he made his way to the exit of the tent.
With the tent cover pushed aside, the first thing Trent noticed was the bright bonfire in his view. Magnificent in size as it lights up the night. Shadows of men became apparent as people cuddled around the fire for warmth.
He exited the tent, staring over his shoulders as he tries to recognise where might his tent be located. But before all that could happen, his stomach grumbled in dissatisfaction. This hunger must be cured before all else.
The small figure walked in a tipsy fashion as he approached the bonfire. The men in arms huddled in small groups as they each indulged their boredom in different ways. Some were busy telling stories, others were sharing their share of riddles, whilst others speak of the general gist of life.
But all those who were resting looked up from their activity as they recognised the small figure that passed them. A soldier gave the tipsy walker a nod of approval as he passed, he spoke up: "Trent the Nimble."
The person to who the words were directed to only nodded back, as he didn't know the name of the one who spoke.
As Trent walked closer, the bonfire reached a glamorous peak in temperature as it soothed the eerie temperature present in late Autumn. Nearby, Trent recognised a metal pot accompanied by large spoons and attendants.
He assumed that is the serving station.
Trent inched closer to those men.
"Any left?"
One of the men looked at the small figure in front of him, which is a head shorter than himself. The soldier that was unfortunately tasked with food serving duty replied in a monotonous tone.
"Only scraps, but enough to fill one's stomach."
The soldier grabbed a bowl resting on the serving table. He scooped up what remained in the pot and presented it to Trent.
"Here, take it."
.
Under the presence of the bonfire, the lone man sat, as he bitterly mouthed the taste of the porridge long cold from negligence. There he wondered as he savoured his food. Would he ever reach those great heights?