Shane Donegal, D4- 18
A warrior was strong and swift, like the Fianna. To even join his clan, men had to run across a mile of thornbushes, hunt a deer with their bare hands, leap over a stick held at their chest, and defend themselves from nine enemies with only a wooden rod. Their leader Fionn mac Cumhaill destroyed giants and monsters alike, and Fianna member Lugh defeated the great king Balor of the Evil Eye. The picture in my family's book showed a battlefield strewn with fallen fighters, and in the center, a single man plunginga sword into a man whose bloodred eye spewed black waves of death. I turned the page and revealed more characters.
A warrior was fierce, as fierce as the Morrigan. Like Badb the war crow, whose cry meant the death of nations. Like Macha the Red, the war-queen. Like Nemain, whose name meant "poison" and who was called "The Frenzy" by the few enemies she allowed to escape. The picture showed three women in a circle, their flaming hair streaming in the air as the faced endless hordes of challengers.
A warrior was as crafty as Cu Chulainn, who defeated his enemies with distraction. A warrior was as brave as Patrick, who slew the terrible serpent Crom Cruach. He was as clever as Gwydion the trickster. He was patient as Fionnula, who fought seven years to free her cursed brothers. I flipped through more and more pages, watching the swirling art change and reveal more pieces of my dream. My family's shillelagh hung over the table that held the book, reminding me of what was to come.
Warriors weren't made overnight. It took years before I was strong enough to properly wield my weapon and years more before I was skilled enough to wield it well. I should have learned other things, like lightness of foot and strategy, but I was impatient. I wanted to be out there crossing weapons with people like me, not thinking about what came next. But what came next was all that really mattered.
When I read my book, I never looked at the background. I saw brightly-colored figures in the center of the page doing great deeds. I never paid any attention to the figures in the background- the pale, colorless forms that lay dead on the ground. I never thought to consider how a warrior who killed a thousand enemies required that a thousand people die. I thought of myself as the hero of the story. Only the Games showed me we all thought that way. And the pictures were wrong. The battles weren't glorious things with grimy smiling heroes and fleeing villains. We were all each others' villains, and we all acted like it.
There was another page in the book I never read. It told of Fionn mac Cumhaill's old age. It used to bore me, and I thought it was a terrible ending. Fionn grew tired of fighting. He was weary of seeing people die. One day, he lay down in a cave and slept. The stories said he was still there, waiting until Ireland needed him. I couldn't understand why he would want to sleep when there were battles to fight and adventures to have. I always read to the page before that and stopped.
After the Games, I understood. Fionn had grown wise enough to understand how little there is that's worth fighting for. He was tired of the death that war brought and hoped he never had to see it again. He knew there were still things that made it necessary, though, and that's why he stayed. He was ready to come back, but only if we needed him. Otherwise, he was done. I had never felt more kinship with him.