The Red Yarn- It meant something different to each of them. Yet it served as a constant reminder of the journey they had shared.
Dom wrapped it tightly around the hilt of his sword. A few years ago he would have called it the same color as the blood that ran down the blade with each cut and thrust. But that was wrong. Blood was a dirty, rusty, clinging color, and he wondered now how he could have ever believed it would be so pure. There had been so much blood, too much blood. He had nearly drowned. For adventure, that was why he had joined the Own; adventure and the freedom of a life on the road. He had joined for something to do, anything that would force the images of his dead cousins from his mind, even if it was only other dead that would replace them. You had to really love it to survive, that was what everyone said about life in the Own. And he had stayed- for his men, his friends, his commander, the people that he had met and couldn't imagine leaving behind to fight without him. Never for love. But as each day passed and the visions of the enemy's eyes began to fade, he knew he was no longer drowning; he had learned to swim. It was a survival instinct, the only way to stay sane in the hell of war, but what was the use of making it out alive if you lost yourself in the process?
It was his anchor, that which kept him Dom. Each time he ripped his blade out of a man's chest, the yarn that was not the color of blood was there to remind him to think. Not now- now was wheel and parry and shout an order, cut off the charge, get out of range. Later, when the bodies of the enemy dead lay cold and the leaping flames of the funeral pyre had burned down to glittering coals, he would remember. That even the enemy had wives and daughters, sons and lovers. That he had taken it all away. And that he would do the same the next day, and the next, because he believed in the country that he was fighting for and the soldiers that stood by his side. As he gripped the sword to take the field once more he was reminded of how easy it was to go from killing a man to being a killer. He walked a fine line, but he knew he would never fall into the encroaching darkness; too many people depended on his smile, and if he was swallowed up, they would surely follow. He couldn't be responsible for robbing the world of that much light.
It was his focus, something to look at instead of the enemy's face. The future that he was protecting with each life he ended. It had been a long time since he was innocent. He would never regret joining the Own; Raoul and the boys had made him the man he was today. But sometimes Dom wished that he could recapture a part of the boy he was long ago, before the wars and raiders, the pirates and immortals. The one who had waged mock duels with his younger cousin using sticks for swords and dreamed of fighting monsters. The one who had said he was going to be a hero. An idle wish; for him it was too late. Yet maybe if he fought hard enough, the doe-eyed boy with the floppy curls in camp could remain a boy for just one more day, one more month, one more year. Maybe no one would ever have to fight again. It was enough to keep him going through the long silent nights under the stars.
To Dom, it was the hope for a better tomorrow. The chance of a future in which he wouldn't have to sit in remembrance before the dying flames, to remind himself that he was more than a man with a sword; the chance that there might come a time when he could finally discover who he really was. There were no guarantees in life- but at this moment, for this lifetime, just maybe was enough.
Next post will be the last- only Owen is left, and he's my favorite. I've written most of that one already, so check back soon for the end. Thanks for reading!