The Lone Warrior
Chapter Two
Scarecrows
Theotret woke with a start.
He clutched his nose, where the pain was coming from, and looked down at his bed. It was stained with crimson blood. He sighed, got up out of his bed, and flung open a curtain with such aggressiveness that he almost tore it off the hinges.
It was nearly sunrise. Theotret wiped the last of the blood from his nose with a woollen towel, and started opening the other curtains. He slipped on a loose vest and linens, and fastened his tunic over it. Despite Dicia's warning, he belted his scabbard on.
Theotret's house was a small cottage on the outskirts of town. It was a lonely little place, with many wilted crops that had not been watered since his father started drinking just over three years ago sitting on a sodden patch of farmland to the east. He sighed and walked out of the cottage, slipping some sandals on his way out.
The night was ending. The orange sky shone down on Theotret as he locked the old cottage door shut. He walked out onto the front patch of farmland, kicking the old wheat aside, and looked at the old scarecrow that he and his father had built so long ago.
Tears sprung to his eyes as he recalled that memory. It was Theotret's earliest memory. It was a warm summer day, and his father had suggested that they make a scarecrow to ward the scavengers from attacking the crops brutally. It had been several months before his father had started drinking even more heavily, and Theotret himself was only five. They had had so much fun building the scarecrow.
Theotret flung the memory away, and drew his sword. Whenever he had been unable to spar, or there was no-one to spar with, Theotret would hack away at the scarecrow to hone his skill. He ran his index finger along the edge, almost drawing blood, and then, bitterly, he swung his sword heavily at the scarecrow.
The blow was hard, but, as usual, it did not mar the scarecrow's metal frame underneath the baggy shirt and stuffed hay. Letting a small moan of anguish escape, he swung yet another time, but tears clogged his eyes, and he overhit, jolting his arm, and dropped the sword.
This sudden burst of shock drew a fresh stream of blood from Theotret's nose, and, half-sobbing, he slumped in a heap against the wall.
Not five minutes later, soft footsteps rang out across the night. Theotret turned his head, and at the entrance to the cottage was Isha, Dicia's daughter, looking worried.
Isha had long, straw coloured hair, that hung well past her shoulders. She was a foot shorter than Theotret, and almost a year younger.
"Theotret? Is that you?" Isha asked.
"Yes." he replied.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes. My injuries are nothing that time will not heal. However, I fear that I may not ever recover from something as emotional as this."
"What?" Isha was puzzled.
"My father." Theotret sniffed, and blood flew up his nose. He winced at the pain.
"Ah." Theotret's father was always ground that the villagers were careful to tread around during conversation with him.
"I was sure that I had gotten over it… but being out here… it opened a scar that has not yet healed over."
"Theotret, we were all sure that you had… I mean…" Isha stuttered.
"I understand… I just need some good sleep. Thank you Isha." Theotret walked up and pulled her into a tight, friendly embrace.
After a few seconds, she pulled away, and started to walk back to her house. Theotret unlocked the door to his cottage, and collapsed on his woollen bed.
I'm sorry for writing such short chapters… anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. Please review!