The Truest Silver

[Aphetoros]

War

The sunlight crawled through the window, scraping golden claws on the floor like some kind of beautiful predator, and as the radiant orb of light in the sky rose higher, the beast crept onto his face, dappling the thick patterned quilt and white bedsheets with yellowish spots. Halon rolled, his sky-blue eyes opening and closing as he blinked away the heavy sleep.

He sat motionless for a long while, biting his lip and taking long, deep breaths as he recovered from the horrifying visions that flooded his mind. Blood, guns, and swords were all that his dreams consisted of after he received the letter a few weeks ago. It was standard, probably mass-produced by over-worked scribes in some run-down building in Old Town-- a constant reminder that today he'd cease to be a mere citizen, and instead become a soldier. The letter was a draft notice, formal and yet terrifying, and to think soon they'd be at his doorstep. His bags were packed, a task his mother insisted she do the previous night as a last labor of love before he was taken from her. He'd only a few hours to eat breakfast and say his final farewells.

Judging by the height of the sun, he'd slept much later than normal today-- most likely because he found it difficult to sleep. With a wide yawn, Halon slid the covers across his bare flesh, stepping silently across normally screeching wooden floorboards to his dresser. Today he couldn't bear to hear those wooden boards beneath him moan-- it would feel like the home of his childhood mourning his departure.

He slipped on a pair of underwear and secured the cargo they held with a quick and awkward readjustment, pulling loose gray slacks over them before throwing on a solid black sleeveless shirt. He'd cut off the sleeves from most of his tunics, the extra cloth just brought more sweat during his workouts or his time in the fields.

His bedroom was simple enough, and large for a single person. A spacious bed was pressed into one corner, across from his door, and a window stretched nearly the entire wall opposite his bed. Next to the door was his dresser, sitting atop it two fully-packed leather backpacks. Over the dresser, built into the wall, was a long mahogany shelf with a cylindrical staff carved from some kind of oak still resting. Halon reached up for the staff, his fingers curling naturally around its verdant leather grip. They'd spend the last few hours together, atop the roof. Striding with a confidently puffed-out chest, he slid open the movable glass and cautiously stepped onto the tile-like surface of the house's summit. Using the weapon for support, he made his way to a narrow and flat rectangle of roof.

Taking several deep breaths, he held the staff out in front of him, moving it slowly at first in the patterns he'd memorized and practiced since he was small. The wooden object danced around his torso and arms, his fingers moving to their own concerto while his feet stepped to a silent aria. This pattern was of the fields, each blade of grass sliding with the soft breezes. Back and forth...

Continuing, he let his eyes move up the horizon, his movements following the landscape. A curling and cunning motion for the river, and a powerfully difficult leap representing the mountains. While in the air, he let the staff shoot down below him, releasing his grip with both hands and clasping each end of the wood with his bare feet, balancing for a few long minutes.

His chest heaved with effort, despite having practiced and repeated this every morning, it still stole his breath. Perhaps it was the beauty of the motions, the fluidity of the art. Or it could've been physical exertion, either way it made Halon feel stronger. With each swing of that staff, his fears dulled and his anxiety faded-- a meditative purge of his negativity.

Halon wasn't exactly a Light-fearing man, and he supposed it came from his religiously laid-back family. His dad had once been a priest, though since retiring he seemed to feel the young priests should continue to preach, it wasn't his job anymore. While still made to go to the church at least once a week with the family, it became more of a quality-time ritual than a time to reflect the tenants of the Light. Despite his lack of worship, a healthy sense of nationalism was reared in him, from the day he was born he was taught to aid the people of Stormwind when it was his time. He desperately did want to help, but not by joining the military.

He heard stories about war, tales of the bloodshed and the 'creation' of terrifying half-human monstrosities, with only the drive to kill and rape flowing in their veins. He didn't want to partake in such activities, he didn't want to kill anyone.

Halon supposed he had to get over it. He jumped from his balanced position, grabbing the staff as he slid down the side of the building and into the young tree nearby. The branches cut at his bare arms, and he smiled weakly at the familiar feeling. He wouldn't feel the trees anymore. Once he'd firmly planted his feet on the ground, he entered the house through the front door-- it wasn't ever locked because no one ever bothered to come out this way. There was a dirt path leading up to the door through a small stretch of woods, and past that for a few miles was trail of jagged gravel leading to the main roads. From there, Goldshire was but a mile or so. It was a nice place, and the scenery was well worth the walk, or at least Halon thought so.

"Halon..."

His eyes darted to the kitchen table as he closed the door behind him, his mother--Elane-- and father--Garin-- were pretending to smile, but it was clear his mother had been crying and his father had been up all night. "Mom, Dad. Don't be upset, I'll be fine." He offered them a reassuring grin, but it was devalued quickly by her head dropping to the floor, gaze downcast. With petite fingers she wiped her eyes, looking up to her son, "Can I get you some breakfast?"

"I'm... not really hungry." It was silent after that, Garin seemed to have no words and Elane was busying herself with cleaning up the kitchen. He raked his brain like a lioness raking the skin from her prey, searching for the good meat just as he searched for the right words. "I... you guys are going to be here when I'm back, right?" The two smiled, nodding and turning to face him. Garin cleared his throat for a few moments, and then filled the room with his gruff baritone. "We're not going anywhere. I know you'll... be a great soldier, son."

There was a knock at the door, and a familiar voice shattered the illusion that the recruiters were early, "Hey, everyone awake?" Halon turned to twist the knob, but his father stopped him, shooing Elane with one hand and pressing Halon into a chair. Sitting down across from his son, Garin began to speak, "Look. It's going to be tough, and it's not something you can quit unless you want to--. I... know you can handle it but I just need to--"

"Hey? HELLO!?" The voice outside became a shout, and the two sighed in union. Garin waved a hand,

"Go on," His father looked back at the newspaper spread out before him, using his trembling old fingers to keep his place.

"I'll miss you guys." Halon spun around, taking quick steps across the threshold and gripping the brass doorknob with one hand. His father looked up, a somber expression plastered on his face.

"Halon?"

"Yeah dad?"

"Don't f**k up." Halon let a laugh slip past his lips, thinking those last words to be a joke, even as Garin's face remained creased with the seriousness that only an old man's face could fold.

"One minute, Daran!" The young man's voice rang through the wood of the door, the man outside falling silent at the words. Halon bounded up the stairs, each creak the well-wishes of the house. He slid the staff into a special loop in the backpack, sliding the heavier pack on his shoulders and grabbing the lighter one with his left hand.

He ran down the stairwell, about to pull open the door when he stopped suddenly. He glanced behind him, both his parents nowhere to be found. His voice was low, a whisper as he bit back tears,

"Bye."