Many great stories begin with a feeling or an emotion. Some begin with great moral questions, and others with descriptions that stay with you forever. For me, it began with an agitation. My eyes itched, sore enough to wake me from his sleep, but still light enough to send a tickle along my skin. I raised a lazy hand from under the sheets and slapped it along my brow, dragging it drowsily down my cheek. I tried to fall back asleep and forget all about it, but, as always, it didn't work. Something began to irritate my nose, leading to a huge sneeze. Now I was awake indefinitely, I might as well open my eyes.
I hadn't been sleeping well. The summer before, I was driven from my village by a wildfire that killed my family. I don't remember having a sleep since then that wasn't interrupted by throaty screams or the misinterpretation of a rustle as a fast approaching flame. Tonight was proving to be no exception. I heard a blackbird singing in the trees. Such beauty was lost on my ears. After coming face to face with fate, such tiny details become non-existent.
I remember waking to see the entrance to my cave covered in crisp brown leaves, swept inside by the raging winds. I pulled the blanket over my shoulders in a make shift shawl and walked outside to collect water from the river near the rocks. My bucket was looking close to needing repair, so I added it to my list of many things to do and looked up at the sky. It looked about four o'clock in the morning, and the autumn storm clouds were already out in full force. If a hurricane was to break out, I would need supplies. Animals would be scare to hunt during such weather, though if I was lucky one might make the dangerous voyage into one of my traps on its way to find food for its family. Either way, today I needed to hunt.
The last time I ventured outside of my cave was to go to a distant far away city of wealth and fame. When I arrived there, I often thought of my little cave in the forest, and how one who may have found a happy ending may forget where they started. Those who don't forget are often the ones who contemplate their beginnings over and over again.
And so I went to hunt. I wasn't expecting much, just perhaps a few rabbits or a stag if I was lucky. But I would have been happy with just a small squirrel perhaps as long as I could eat. I saw the footprints of a wolf beside a smaller set of prints that looked like deer. I followed them in hope of discovering the trail of a large herd.
There isn't much that can distract me when I'm hunting. Focus is essential if you want to survive in the Forest of Asetir. Danger is everywhere, which makes it seem like a strange place to choose to live. A lot of people asked me why, but I didn't really have an answer. And when they ask me why I left, I smile and change the topic. It's a sensitive subject. But I suppose, now that I know my time is slowly coming to a close, I have found the courage to tell the tale of why.
Why is such a strange question. When you ask it, you expect a straight answer, but who can say that one thing happened directly because of one other thing, and that there were no other factors or reasons perhaps beyond our control that make up the one answer? I realise I am going off on a tangent. Back to the tale.
The tracks did lead to a herd. It took me several days to track them, but I came prepared, not that I can remember what I used to prepare for it anymore. Like I said, small details fade. What I do remember was climbing a tree to gain a height advantage (after all, I knew there were wolves around and I didn't want to make myself an easy target). I squatted down on a thick branch and took out my bow. It too looked like it needed some repairing. The arrows however had only been made the previous week, so they were fresh and strong. The wood was smooth to the touch and smelled of the bamboo oil I'd used to strengthen it. I readied the bow and aimed at one of the older looking deer. She was white-whiskered and limping, so if I didn't get her, the wolf certainly would. But that didn't make my crime feel anymore justified.
I was just about to release the shot when the deer bolted at the sound of clashing metal resonating around the forest. At first I sighed. My food for the next few days was running away thought the trees. But I am a naturally curious woman, so it didn't take long before I was sneaking away to find out what was making so much noise.
The sound lead me to a skirmish by the river. There were two clear sides in the fight. One side were clearly thieving vagabonds- I had seen so many of them they stuck out like a sore thumb to me. The other wore red cloaks and had intricate chain mail of the highest make. Undoubtedly Knights of Camelot. I don't know what I felt more poignantly, disgust or fear. Disgust because of what they stood for, and fear because of what they could do. Almost without realising it, the Knights had become a malevolent force with a shadow of death that followed them everywhere. They easily laid waste to the thieves, bloodied swords gliding in the newborn dawn light. Then, when no one was paying attention, one of the Knights was hit on the back of his thigh. He fell to the ground with an anguished cry. His comrades turned to look, and without hesitation murdered the man who had delivered the blow. They formed a protective circle around him, whilst a raven haired boy rushed to his side and began to treat his wound. They weren't on the offensive anymore.
I reviewed my previous thoughts about them as I watched them in the lull of the fight. I had always been told that they fought for themselves, for their own wealth and power and never for their comrades. They were evil, selfish demons who crushed anyone they decided to. Now I watched them defend their fallen friend, watched the boy care for him. What had changed so much since my time in the cave? What had turned the devils into defenders?
So when a thief they thought dead rose up behind them and raised his sword above his head, I let loose my arrow into his skull.
Can one's actions be independent from thought? Until then I would say no. Looking back I'm not so sure. It's true, I had been offered a new perspective of the Knights, but opinions as strong as mine were then are hard to change. Perhaps my fingers acted through fate. Or perhaps, some part of me just knew that it was that arrow that would change everything.