(no subject)
Seifer had been on this Island for more than a year and in all that time he'd never spent more than a few hours out in public without his gun-blade, his one constant companion. Until yesterday, when he'd given it away for good.
It had been relatively easy, given the circumstances, to make the decision to give up his weapon and his ambitions of soldiering. The hard bit was following through on it and working out what exactly he should do with himself now he'd made that choice.
He had devoted everything he had into being the perfect fighting machine, spending hour after hour working with his blade, and now he had to start again at trying to be something else. He'd already cleaned his hut twice this morning and taken longer in the shower to make sure he was spotlessly as clean and presentable as his living space was, but the free hours he normally spent practicing still seemed.to loom long and empty before him.
He wasn't going to do nothing, just become a beach bum, he already knew that. He had to be doing something big, something important or he'd never be content. If he couldn't be the best fighter on the island, he'd be the best cook or the best hunter or something else big that could make a difference. But he'd have to start from scratch.
So he'd walked from the showers to the kitchen, hiding how vulnerable and naked he felt without his weapon, with a swagger even more exaggerated than usual, and borrowed a carving knife.
And a few minutes later he was sat just next to the compound entrance, with his back against a wall and whittling away at a piece of wood. He was going to make himself a fishing rod.
It had been relatively easy, given the circumstances, to make the decision to give up his weapon and his ambitions of soldiering. The hard bit was following through on it and working out what exactly he should do with himself now he'd made that choice.
He had devoted everything he had into being the perfect fighting machine, spending hour after hour working with his blade, and now he had to start again at trying to be something else. He'd already cleaned his hut twice this morning and taken longer in the shower to make sure he was spotlessly as clean and presentable as his living space was, but the free hours he normally spent practicing still seemed.to loom long and empty before him.
He wasn't going to do nothing, just become a beach bum, he already knew that. He had to be doing something big, something important or he'd never be content. If he couldn't be the best fighter on the island, he'd be the best cook or the best hunter or something else big that could make a difference. But he'd have to start from scratch.
So he'd walked from the showers to the kitchen, hiding how vulnerable and naked he felt without his weapon, with a swagger even more exaggerated than usual, and borrowed a carving knife.
And a few minutes later he was sat just next to the compound entrance, with his back against a wall and whittling away at a piece of wood. He was going to make himself a fishing rod.