Hey Readers! This is the first of my Flash Fiction One Shots and I have to shout out to FLASHFICTION365 on Tumblr for giving me the prompts. Thank you so much! As you probably saw in the description, I posted the date that this Flash Fiction was written, because I might not have time to post the same day that I wrote it. Enjoy!

The bitter wind tugged at my clothing as I crouched in my hiding place. I had been there for over a week, waiting. With nothing else to do, I felt the boredom begin to set in. But with boredom came the slow insanity of uselessness.

A hunter is known for their patience when stalking their prey. But unfortunately, I never learned the ways of the Hunter. I was the Fighter. My job was always simple – kill. Kill that man. Separate this one's head from his shoulders. Duel this swordsman and win. Never had I ever needed to stalk my opponent. Where was the justice in that?

I frowned, rubbing my arms to keep warm. How was it fair to slaughter a man without giving him a chance to defend himself? There was no honor in it. The ways of the Hunter were animalistic and aloof – the intimacy and respect of a man and his opponent was lost in the distance. The line between a hunter and the criminal he trails blurs until outsiders can't determine which one actually was the criminal.

There was never any thrill in waiting. Adrenaline pulsed through your veins when you stood face-to-face against a force as easily able to end you as you it. But as I sat, hidden in the winter-hardened shrubs, none of the excitement of battle flowed through my being. What was it that drew people to the Hunter?

My frown deepened as I shivered into my cloak. Why was the Hunter celebrated above all else? Who deemed his ways the most worthy of praise? Would they feel the same if they knew all he did was grow insane from the boredom and uselessness? I used to agree with whoever decided this was so. I used to think only the second rate chose to fight – because they weren't good enough or internally felt they never could be.

But as I shifted my weight and began to rub my hands together, I knew they were wrong. The Hunter wasn't any better that the Fighter. He was only more cunning, and cunning doesn't mean skill. It only means he is capable of deceiving.

And I never want to be known for that. I assured myself as I glanced over the frozen terrain. It was barren and silent. The only sound that could be heard was my intake of stinging air. I hoped that it wouldn't give me away. Hunter or not, I had a job to do.

The sound of trotting hooves echoed up to my vantage point. I had hidden right above the worn path that trekked slowly through the mountains. Perfect timing. Beside me lay a worn longbow and a quiver of arrows. I had always known how to shoot an arrow – but only for sport. As a fighter, killing your opponent with a long-ranged weapon was cowardly. Shooting one into a man's head wouldn't be too different than a target. Right?

I notched a single arrow and brought the fletching to my mouth. The hoof beats grew closer and closer until a horse and rider stepped out from behind the outcropping.

The rider wore a coat of green. Its collar was turned up against the wind. Taking a deep breath, I sighted carefully. A golden pin glinted ominously over the rider's chest, and I aimed just to the left of it.

My breath caught as I pulled the arrow taunt. Adrenaline began to seep into my bloodstream, making my ears hum. And in that instant, I understood.

I understood why Hunters loved what they did. It filled them as much as combat did me. The thrill of the chase set my blood to boil and my heart racing. All thoughts of boredom and achiness of cold left in that instant, leaving me only with the bow and the man below me.

The sensation of dominion left me somewhat breathless and my focus began to slip. Taking another deep breath, I narrowed my eyes and brought my attention squarely on my target.

Exhaling, I let the arrow fly, and it landed with a satisfying thunk in the rider's chest.

Elation swept through me as the man tumbled from his horse's back and onto the frozen ground. His steed let out a piercing whinny and galloped back the way he'd come. I let out a shout of victory and threw my hands in the air. I had done it. I had played the part of the Hunter, and it hadn't been as bad as I thought it would be.

The thought left me suitably warm in the stinging wind as I gathered the fallen rider up and carried him back to my own horse – sheltered and care for – and began the long trek home.

Yes. I thought. Suitably warm.