The Forever Memory

            Everyone has a moment they wish to remain in forever. For some, it is an exhilarating Winter Festival. For others, it is a certain victory or achievement, wrenched from the jaws of adversity and strife. For a young half-elf, though, the moment was so simple. It was a memory that always flitted through her mind at times like this, where she lay huddled on a tree limb, trying to stay warm. It was the memory of one particular winter night.

            She was sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, bouncing eagerly as her father poured some of his “famous” rabbit stew into cheap wooden bowls. It never tasted good, but gods, she was hungry. Several clinks and shuffles later, the table was set, and she was set down, spoon in hand. It was too big for her, but they didn’t have anything smaller. The fire roared under the cauldron, keeping the stew and cabin warm while she forced down bites of the gristly meal.

            As they ate, her mind wandered. In her absent-minded daydreaming, the half-elf’s eyes fell upon the gleaming set of plate armor adorned with the sigil of her father’s patron. Above it hung a bow, weathered with age and use, but its dark ebony varnish still shined. Since she could walk, she had pestered her father for that damned bow. But for as long as she could remember, it never left those hooks, and neither did the armor beneath it. She spooned in another bite of stew while she pondered the day she would be allowed to parade around in that armor with that bow. Maybe she would join the army, as he had. Perhaps she would simply wear it while on hunts. The possibilities were endless!

            The meal passed with few words between them. Despite his jovial demeanor, the half-elf’s father was never a man of many words. However, his movement told her everything she needed to know. He had certain rituals that were post signs of what he was to do next. They were small, but the girl knew them by heart. Thus, seeing him keep his boots on at the table was a clear sign: he was to hunt.

            After their silent meal, the little girl took to cleaning up the table, as she did every night. However, this time her father put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No, no, Dear. Not tonight. Put your boots on.”

            The half-elf remembered her own confusion, but, even then, she knew the best way to learn was to listen. She scampered over to the small nook of their cabin she called her own and pulled on her too-big boots, along with a too-heavy fur coat. Presenting herself with a smile to her father, she patiently waited by her nook for him to finish the dishes and to pull on his own jacket. However, her father broke his pre-hunt ritual in a way she had never seen before. He lingered by the plate and bow, almost seeming to argue with himself. Finally, he sighed and picked the bow up from its hooks for the first time she could remember. When he stood, the little girl felt smaller than usual. For years, she had wondered when this night would come, but suddenly she felt unprepared… scared. However, this was replaced with trepidation when her father stood the bow in front of her. She gently took hold of the darkly varnished weapon, as was seemingly what her father wanted.

            “Draw your string,” he said.

            With great effort, the little girl raised the bow in front of her and drew the string back as far as she could. The bow was nearly as tall as her, and it was strung for someone much stronger than herself, but she managed, if barely.

            “You’ll grow into it,” he said with a soft chuckle. And so, her first hunt began.

            That memory had stuck with the half-elf through everything, the pain, loneliness, fear, and adventure. Memories flooded back to her: her father’s silver eyes, finally loosing her first arrow, and the quiet pride in his eyes when that arrow found its mark. All these moments paraded through her mind. This reminiscence was one of the few comforts she allowed herself in the ancient forests.

            However, no matter how much she wished to live in that memory forever, life never allowed such luxuries to a woman such as herself. Her thoughts were soon broken by the sound of a yell for help in the distance. Silently, the half-elf prowled through the canopy of rain-soaked trees towards the sound of distress. Upon arrival, she was met with the source of the panicked yells: an elf, surrounded by bandits. Her memories could wait, it was time for action.