Defender

Ian hated night watch.  It wasn’t so much the dark but what was in the dark that scared him.  He had been here before.  In fact, he had requested the duty to prove his metal.  Last on the battlements, he had taken an English arrow in the shoulder.  It had been a clean wound, all told, but it was still sore from time to time.  This was one of those times.  It itched and called to fingers, cold, stiff but eager to scratch.  He could not make out any of the tree line nor anything past the meager glow of his dwindling torch.  He could feel them, his shoulder mostly, made his eyes ache with the strain.  Grasping his longbow for security, he knocked an arrow just to be ready.  The night seemed not to pass, time standing still, the glory of the deed undone, unfinished, unfulfilled.  He had no regrets, his time away from the highlands in the duty of his land, was a proud turn for his parents and siblings.  He would be in service for years and they would have changed much in his absence.  He saw their faces when he closed his eyes, a remembrance of an earlier time but sacred to him.  If he drew breath in deep enough, he thought he could just smell the turned earth of his mother’s herb garden, the wet blanket that was their only horse and the smell of meat pies bellowing forth from the sod chimney of their home.  A twig breaks, silence.  He came out of his sentimental fog, fully awake, aware.  It was hard to judge sounds from up here.  All sounds seemed to fly lower that the height of the wall and scatter.  He edged around a crenellation, idiocy.  The English would not show themselves to Scottish torch light, nor would they give warning before arrows flew.  Cowards.  He knew the sounds of a bow being bent back, the sinew squeaking against it notching, release of the arrow whistling in the air and the dull thud as it struck.  Then pain.  He was not afraid.  He took a deep breath and stood full in the light of his torch, defying death.  He was not an easy target, would not give them the satisfaction.  He was a highlander.  As he reveled in his own bravado, an arrow suddenly sprouted from his chest.  He looked down, amazed at the sight.  The sound came after.  He stepped back, his mind filled with angst with what he needed to do, sound the alarm, cry out in pain, return fire?  Too much to think about.  He had a sense of falling, a sense of wonder at his bad luck or twist of fate.  Had he been living on borrowed time, saved from the first wounding?  His fellow men-at-arms would have had him believe that the wounding would make him stronger, less likely to feel metal again.  It hurt nonetheless.  He could feel himself slipping away, away to where?  His family would be broken hearted, his own heart breaking with the thought of it.  Damned twig, you and I for eternity.  English metal as payment for my journey.