Written for the Men of Tortall forum''s monthly writing challenge. This month: cost.
I'm not TP
The tall, lean boy drops a stack of books on his desk, he had originally taken them hoping to spend the night reading them, but now that wasn't the case. Instead of reading about the great theories' on healing the body, and aiding the soul, he could be spending the next four years learning to destroy both the things he spent time learning to preserve. Then the next four years would be nothing but putting those lessons to use.
A choice had to be made.
A healer and knight; two forces working in two opposite directions. He had seen mage knights coming back from battle fields, boasting about their great spells that could send every living creature into a burst of flames. The ordinary blood thirsty warriors applauded them, but not all knights were like that. His brothers weren't. His brothers were the real knights of chivalry, protecting the weak, helping those in need.
Healers were kind, compassionate, doing everything they could to save people, whether the person was a soldier being carried home after fighting for what he believed in or an elderly grandfather who had fallen in the winter snow.
He was made to be healer, he had the healing touch, the sharp eyes, the humor to bring grins to the less than healthy.
His choices all came with a price.
He could continue on with his own agenda; work at his studies, his young life's ambitions, someday becoming a great healer. A man revered among the scholars of his time is what he could become. He would make his own fortune and be among the best.
But was it really worth it?
His brothers were true men, living and dying as such. They feared nothing and could be stopped by nothing. That's a lie though; they could be stopped in their tracks by the sound of their little brother's footsteps pounding hard to catch up. They could be stopped from swimming while a young green eyed boy stood along the banks. The two young men were stopped from going on journeys if knight errant's by their younger brother's glaring down his sharp nose. But he didn't stop them when they said they were going to war. All he did was stand by and ask them to bring him sweets upon the return. A green mint candy sold down south was all he expected out of their return.
They young men promised to hurry home as soon as they were dismissed.
He could make the choice that would them proud. The price of them being knights was their life. He should follow in their footsteps.
The older boys with the green eyes, and sharp noses would always be the deciding factor in his choices. Two young men would always be watching his back, checking his choices.
The price of everything he did would always be weighed by three boys, and not just himself.
He bent his head and held it in his slender fingers, healer's hands. His green eyes started to fill as he thought about the price of choices, what everything costs. The ghost's of warriors hands placed themselves on his shoulders.
He knew what they would tell him. Do what you think is right, but remember the cost of your choices.
He stood up and looked in the mirror, deep into those eyes of his family. His line was made of healers and knights. Healers and knights. Most the choices were simple with little cost to anyone.
He opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out a small cloth bag, there were bloodstains on it, but a faint smell of mint wafted up from the stale sweets inside.
Nealan of Queenscove knew the cost of his decisions. He was throwing a lot away, but he was giving back to the two knight that mean world to him.