The last few days have found me in several battles. Fortunately, I care for the very things that ensure my survival: my leather and plate armor, the sword I wield, and the mind which God gave me to navigate the world with. My spirit shines against any darkness.
As I clove in a brigand's head with my sword and punctured the lungs and heart of a ruffian, I wondered at the skills and tools we become so familiar and dependent upon. As a baker uses bread, ovens, and flour and as the millwright uses a mill and corn, I use these well-handled weapons, armor, and shields.
Sometimes I feel an advantage: God has granted me with excellent intellect and reflexes, and I am quite aware of how much the mind plays a part in any given battle: political, mental, or physical. Few stand a chance with my God-given abilities.
After the battles are over, and the men who attacked me are strewn in pieces on the ground or gasping mortally at their impending meeting with their maker, I sit and rest. That night, wrapped tightly in a cloak against the cold mountain air, I reflected on the events of the days and the days ahead. Something looms in the near distance.
As I spill wine on my leather boots, I wonder if perhaps my forced exile is nearly over--one way or the other.
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