When I was little, I got scolded a lot for not doing something properly, and then I'd have to do it over and over again until I did it right. I thought my way was the best way, and that my elders told me I was doing it wrong because they were fussy old grumps who wanted me to be as boring as them. So, being me, I made sure I'd do everything my way so that they'd get upset.
He paused, panting, and adjusted his grip on the heavy sword's handle.
Is it strange that I'd give anything if I could hear them scold me for not doing something properly just one more time?
He swung. The sword's edge sank into the dummy's straw-filled body.
Now that I'm older, and have had more time to think about it, all of the scolding I got wasn't because Mother and Father were to frustrate or upset me. They were trying to teach me.
It makes me wonder if they'd still be here, if I'd learned to do more things properly.
Jerking the blade back, he retreated several steps, and began to formulate a different attack plan.
If I'd taken the proper route home, instead of taking a detour through the forest so that I could climb trees and look for wildlife, maybe I would've gotten home in time to save them.
If I'd listened to Mother's advice, instead of thinking that I knew better than she did, maybe I would've been able to protect them.
If I'd focused during my studies, instead of running off and playing when I was supposed to be learning, maybe I would've been able to stop them from dying.
He charged, aiming the sword's point at the spot on the dummy right about where a person's heart would be.
But no, I didn't do any of that sensible stuff.
His foot skidded on the floor and, although he managed to clip the dummy with his weapon, he went stumbling face-first into the wall. Wincing, he stepped back, and approached the dummy yet again.
I never thought that something like that would happen, or that something like that could even happen. They were my parents. They knew everything. They ruled the tiny world I lived in. See, when you're young, your parents, guardians, role models - anyone you look up to, really - all of them seem invincible.
Right up until they don't.
Ignoring the aches in his muscles and the soreness spreading across his forehead where he'd smacked into the wall, he resumed his attacks.
That training session the other day? It was fun at the time. Funny, too, even though all of us wound up facedown in the dirt time and time again. Watching a mage run for his life while a big armored man chases after him is kind of funny, in a somewhat sadistic way.
And then, days later, it hit me.
If they can be defeated in a sparring match, then they can be defeated in a real fight.
Those powerful, invincible role models aren't as actually as powerful or invincible as I keep thinking they are.
They can die.
He lowered his sword, allowing himself a minute to catch his breath. He was exhausted, but he would not let himself stop.
That's why I have to practice. I don't want anyone else to die because I wasn't powerful enough to save them.
I don't want the path of my life to be riddled with the gravestones of everyone I've ever admired.