A Break in Routine

Six months have passed. The days blur into one long routine. I still think my father will walk through the bunkhouse door, his broad shoulders filling the space. He was my protector, my defender. I knew, when I wrapped my fingers around his hand, that nothing could hurt me. Last I saw him, I stood just past his waist. I wonder how tall I’ve gotten here. I wonder, if I stood next to him, if I would stand closer to his shoulders. I want to see him at my door, proclaiming with his big grin that today we will throw out our plans.

I remember one day he announced we were going to a farmer’s market. A wagon train had come in from Amphitrite to sell goods. I remember the wagons. They were taller than my father. I had to strain my neck to see. Makeshift tables lined the streets, the colors of their produce bright against the wood buildings. I only remember bits and pieces, but I remember the colors the most; green apples and orange vegetables, red tomatoes bigger than my fist and corn practically sparkled against the sun. The entire town was out. At some point, someone decided to play their fiddle. I clapped my hands amongst the crowd building.

I remember being disappointed when we left early. My father was mad at something. I don’t remember, but maybe I had wandered off for a time? Anyway, I wish he would come through the door. His smile would take away the gloom, I know. I hope on many nights that he survived, that he’ll come to save me. Then I remember the heat of the flames. He couldn’t save me that night. He was big and tough but couldn’t stop them.

There are no farmer’s markets here. There are no reasons to break from the routine. Rise at dawn, run the camp’s perimeter, eat breakfast, conduct daily chores, attend education class, eat lunch, run the obstacle course, attend weaponry class, combat training, eat dinner, participate in competitions, honorary buttons awarded, go to bed, start again. Tomorrow it changes. General Scopas is visiting. I can feel the vibration from the officers. They are planning big showcases.

I know I will be part of the festivities. The general will want to see my progress. Zeno has spent the day sharpening his swords and polishing his shoes. He cares more about the visit than I. General Scopas is not the farmer’s market. I don’t think he is exciting at all. But, something inside makes me want to please him. Maybe I should polish my shoes and patch the holes in my uniform. Maybe he is the key to leaving. I don’t care if he takes me to the battlefield. I can easily go home from there. Yes. I will show him how great of a solider I am. I will show him that I deserve to leave. Goodnight for now, my friend. There is a lot to prepare.