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One of my earliest memories of childhood—back when there was still wood for the fire, and money to buy bread and meat and medicine—is being cradled in my mother’s arms by a smouldering fireplace, sniffling at the pain in my leg. I’d fallen while running outside, scraped my knee and hurt my ankle.
I can’t quite remember where Will was at the time, but I remember Mother whispering. Whether it was to keep him from hearing or just to lend a sense of privacy, I’ll never know.
“You know, when you were a baby,” she said, “You were much stronger than Wilhelm had been.”
“I was?” I asked.
I remember her stroking my hair. She said: “You didn’t cry as much, and you made through winter very easily. You were always a brave little boy.”
My mother, bless her heart. I’d always hoped she was telling the truth about that.
I tried to use it as leverage against Will once. Sibling rivalry, eh? Ours was always worse than most, and after Lotte, we… well, I think we just about bypassed rivalry into hatred. I don’t remember what it was about that specific time that got me so riled, but I remember shouting at him: “Mum said I was always stronger than you!”
“Mum lied,” I remember him snapping back.
He was still much taller than me then. I reached up and shoved at his shoulders, and down he went into the dirt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so powerful.
Of course, that was until he tackled me and nearly broke my glasses. Luckily they fell off in the ensuing fight.
But that memory was my comfort then, the one chance it seemed I’d ever have at getting the best of Will. These days, it’s the whole memory of my mother, in all she was, that keeps me strong. She was gentle and loving and kind. And forgiving. That one, as it turned out, was the most important.
It would be nice if she’d lived to see me today. I think she’d be proud of me. I think she’d call me her brave boy, and stroke my hair. In fact, I know she would, and this time I would believe her for sure.Mood:  thoughtful |
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Even though I was never really into that whole fighting “witches” and killing “monsters” and robbing decent folk of their money…thing…there were a couple things about it that I liked. One of them was that crossbow.
There was no question Will always wanted to be the real “hero” in our little duo, in fact he never even had to say it. When he got off on one of his bullshitting sessions, he was twice as fond of pretending as he’d ever accused me of being. That, by default, gave him the sword. The up-close-and-personal, rushing-in-and-hacking-away-at-things weapon. I, as second-in-command, got as my main offense the ranged weapons: slings, and the crossbow.
I liked it from the first time I practiced, the first shot I fired. Even while I doubted the motives behind learning the skill, I had to admire the mechanics of the object, the precision of it. I quite fancied the idea of honing my abilities such that I could miss deliberately, or hit a specific point on-target. So I did. When Will and I weren’t working, and I wasn’t writing, I was out in the nearest field practicing: on trees, mostly. I’d try to find really skinny ones and hit them dead-center in the trunk.
During the adventure in Marbaden I couldn’t help thinking for half a second that all this was some kind of crazy arboreal revenge for their fallen brethren.
But, yes. That would have to be the weapon I’d choose, if I had to choose one. Even if for no other reason than it’s rather a neat little piece of machinery.Mood:  amused |
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