Peredur "Fighter" Thomas Morrow (swordchucks) wrote in missions, @ 2012-08-06 04:54:00 |
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Current music: | Various tracks from FFXIII-2 |
Entry tags: | ! narrative, fighter morrow |
"The good man is the friend of all living things." - Mahatma Gandhi
Who: Peredur "Fighter" Thomas Morrow
What: What keeps you awake at night~ (Narrative.)
Where: Noah's quarters.
When: Same day as Blitz/Dragon madness but at night after all of it.
Status: Complete.
Maybe he should have been asleep. In fact, he should have been asleep, he knew he should have. Tomorrow would most likely be an early day and there would be many long hours spent fussing over Noah, more wordless worrying though she'd be able to read each concern, each passing thought in his features. Fighter had never been a man skilled in hiding his emotions if it were excitement, joy, sadness, worry or regret. Even if there were no words, a crinkle of his forehead, a scrunching of his eyebrows or a downward tug of his mouth would give him away every time. He was no poet, he was no teller of great epics, Fighter was a man who had little skills of significant value in the practical world. Due to his intentional focus on combat and defense, he had no idea how to clean a chimney, no concept of how to work on machina or even be much of a leader without his swords and strength. If you took away his ability to fight, his ability to stand up to mighty foes and take blows that would fell lesser men, Fighter would have almost nothing. A moderate cooking ability, a vague idea of how to plant crops that was clouded in a haze of a long ago memory, a random pocket of pop culture knowledge... These were not the skills to make a man. These were not skills that would allow him to create and raise a family. Things like that would not allow him to provide for himself, never-the-less anyone else who he may want to care for. His life as a warrior was one packed to the brim with fulfillment for his personal aspirations, a life that had allowed him to rise from humble beginnings to that of near knighthood. A deft ability with blades, armor and weapons of all sorts made Peredur valuable, made him someone worth training and, according to Balamb, now a worthy teacher himself. Which was an honor he was unable to put words to. After years of being the lowly student, after years of seeking out great masters of knowledge, he was now able to repay their time, their frustration, their patience and their kindness by being a mentor to young impressionable minds, like his had once been. To teach young men, and women, the path of good and honest actions and deeds in a world that often felt to be sorely lacking of such ideals. Yet, he still felt like he was not enough of a man. His world revolved around fighting those who would wrong the innocent, the weak, the meek and the humble. His role, nay, his responsibility to his companions at arms was to make sure they remained as unharmed as possible so that they could do the jobs they were so greatly adept at. For the mages to sling spells, the rogues to gain information, sorceresses to summon and white mages to heal. Today, Fighter had failed at that role. Blue eyes fell upon hands rough from a lifetime worth of weaponry work. These hands, his hands, were calloused from long days of training and what felt like even longer battles. A long, thin, white scar ran down one thumb, into the pad of his hand and eyes trailed along it. Years of training could disappear in the blink of an eye if one was not careful, if one did not cement the training to it becoming instinct. It was only when you forgot your natural responses and replaced them with the will to run into battle, the desire to clash swords with other men and combat beasts twice, three times, even quadruple your own size that you gained the ability to look your enemies in the eye and not shrink away. Unfortunately, being capable of such feats did not mean you were able to face your greatest fears. It was only in instances when you did what you thought you could not that true bravery was born, it was in those moments that the strength of the soul was challenged and one could prove, not only to themselves, but others around them, the type of human, or in his case, the type of man he was. A man was only as good as his word, but what worth was words that were not aptly backed with appropriate actions? Was it possible for him to be a good teacher? Would he fail his students as he had failed as a Guardian to the princess of Corina? As he had failed Noah today? Would he ever be the man a woman would be proud to call her husband? Could he have more value then a person skilled in the decimation of foes? What value would a man like him have in a world like this? One that he felt so out of place and oft left behind in? When the world was in constant flux, when old values were being amended and redefined on a daily basis, what rites of passage were there? What ideals should one subscribe to in order to establish a concept of what they should reach for? What aims were considered noble in this new age? The values Peredur ascribed to were strong, definite and assured in his mind. Though, it was oft those with the best intentions that walked the quickest road to hell. The old saying held more truth than Fighter knew how to properly express and it left a heavy feeling in his gut: 'Little evil would be done in the world if evil never could be done in the name of good.' Strong and rough hands raised, scrubbing over the growing stubble on his chin before wiping over his face and raking through short cropped hair. He should sleep. Tomorrow was to be a long day. |