A warrior
She closes her eyes. Her heart beats, sweet in her soul, her hands cold, snow in the depths of her chest while her ankles move against the pressure of those chains. Everything seems cloudy, there are cries in the battlefield, the slaves want to run, and the explosions roar around while she sings to herself a pretty song. Then she falls, dirt on her face, tears of silver in her eyes, there couldn’t be a worse time. While they laugh and pretend that everything is alright: some with distant smiles, some with fake happy-go-lucky masks. Nevertheless she stands, the shackles of her past around her ankles, and she walks while grabbing the sword (the pursuit of never giving up). And she realizes…A warrior is not someone who never cries, who smiles all the time, who never complains, who never rests, who pretends. A warrior is someone like her, ever so human, ever so weak, ever so fragile; like a distant memory full of scars, like a moth in the dark that finds her way under the dim light of the