|Tales of an Archer
Author: Ireland Ranger PM
An archer, Fox Doherty, tells the tales of his life so that they can be written down. This is the collection of his adventures and exploits.Rated: Fiction T - English - Adventure - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,878 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 05-08-12 - id: 3020653
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I was born to hold a bow. It was in my blood, in my fingers, it was my destiny. However I didn't expect to become the most feared archer the way I did. Slavery, pain, loss...it almost dosen't seem worth it. However such thoughts are always drained into a dim shadow of strength when I feel the wooden bow arch as I draw it back. The feeling of anticipation as I release the string is overwhelming. But there was nothing more wonderful then the satisfaction of hitting the target dead on, a killing shot.
Each time I fire an arrow, I rekindle a memory. How I became what I am was not easy, or accidental, as some may think. Many people and places helped me to become who I am and what I stand for. Without such things I would not be standing here, telling you my story.
Many times I nearly gave up and despaired, yet God was kind enough to always send me some sort of hope. Whether it was the breeze, the weather or even a small ray of sunlight, the world is full of hope if you look hard enough. I am inclined to say, that I felt at times that only death could give me the freedom and comfort I so desperately craved. Believe me, hope is scarce in the places I have been, in the eyes of people I have met there seems to be nothing but emptiness. I never wanted to be like them. You may say I looked to nature for comfort because I was so desperate, and that may be true, but it brought me a little feeling of truth in the world of lies I lived and still in. It held a beauty that was real, and couldn't be false by nature.
Ah yes, I was telling you of my memories, such sad things they are. Pain fills my mind when I dwell upon them, yet, it would be an untruth to tell you that I have no happy memories. I do, but they are scarce and spread far apart. Each time I pull back that bowstring, I feel all the pain I've suffered and the little joy I've felt fill the string, giving me strength. When I fire, my memories seem to be that force that helps my arrows hit their mark every time. So strange are memories.
You ask me to tell you of my life...my memories. Shall I? I have for so long kept them locked in my soul, to myself and my own. I wouldn't say that I kept my adventures from those that I met who were kind to me because I was selfish; I could not say or think that. To close myself up like I have for so long has been a living torture. I have had many exploits that would fit right into one of those fairy tales adults tell their children before bed. Perhaps I should tell you in a series, one venture after another.
You wish to write down my experiences? Well, I cannot stop you, and I will not stop you. Maybe if people in the world today knew more about such hardships and pain, they would be wiser and more alert at their actions. Ah, but I know it would fail. People have seen things over and over again and remain unaffected and unchanged. Heartless, numb and cowardly, that is how I would describe such people. Write all you wish, I suppose it may be good to have such things written down when I die, so as not to be forgotten.
Consider this my confession, my life history, as you will. I will speak with all honesty and truth as that which is in my power.