Ghosts of the Past

Don't blink,

You're nearly there.

Don't fall,

You're time's almost gone.

Hold your breath,

Because the day is upon you,

The day your apprenticehood ends,

And your mastership begins.

You're stepping out,

Only two days left,

The test already behind you.

But you grab your staff,

And you notice that your hand trembles.

The hand, steady as no other all the while,

Steady even when competing against others your age,

Others, with more training and definitive knowledge of their heritage;

But now, it trembles.

And you feel your heart trembling with it.

Ten years, you have stayed,

Humble, worked, but happy,

In the house of the master,

Known in history as unyielding.

Ten years, and you have managed,

To put behind you the horrors of what was once your life,

And are finally sleeping, untortured,

Even in the dark.

And now you think,

In two days' time,

Of having to step back into it,

Into the streets and dirty alleys,

That have haunted your nightmares for years,

And your hand trembles.

"You were not meant for this," the master had said,

"You were always meant for greatness."

The lady had agreed,

While feeding you her finest soup.

Over and over, she had said,

That you belong with the staff that chose you.

And now,

With that very staff,

Your hand trembles.

What if you're unable to survive the dark now?

What if, in the ten years of training,

You've gotten softer,

Weaker, even,

Against the forces you know will be there?

You look at the staff,

And try to tell yourself,

That it'll be okay.

You have, after all,

Trained in the ancient arts.

No small feat for man,

Especially for a boy of 17, like you.

No darkness should be able to stand up,

Against you and your light bearing staff.

You repeat this to yourself,

Again and again.

You convince yourself,

And you smile.

But still, your hand trembles.