My First Forbidden Truce by the River: Shattering Innocence
The sun bled low over the river, that endless, whispering beast pulling me west. My boots slipped on slick rocks, heart slamming like war drums. There—two shapes ahead. Man and horse, still as death. Axe glinted at his side. Fear clawed my gut, but excitement twisted in too, hot and unfamiliar. Unknown man, maybe enemy. Hand gripped dagger under shirt, but I raised palm. No turning back. Pulse thundered in ears. Closer now, his bulk sharpened: heavy mail over leather, sword and helm nearby. Bearded face burined, teeth black, dirt-caked. Eyes locked mine, sun silhouetting his massive frame. Sweat beaded my neck despite cool air. What if he swings? What if he doesn’t? Desire to break the solitude burned low, stirring something forbidden.
He boomed, ‘Come in peace?’ Voice gravel-thick. I matched it, edged nearer. Laughter erupted, huge, shaking his belly. Spit hit dirt. Fire smoldered; he kicked embers, smoke curling lazy. Dropped my pack, sat close—too close. Heat licked my skin, mingled with his stench: sweat, old blood, man unwashed. Chewed verne stem, stared through greasy hair. No monk, no insignia. Our eyes probed, guards up but cracking. Talk flowed rough: war lies, fake battles, deserter grins. Fingers itched to touch his scar as he yanked shirt, showed belly gash. ‘Lucky fat gut,’ he winked. My breath hitched, cock twitched under rough cloth—first raw pull to this brute sameness. Marks flashed: his losange dots, mine too. Enemies blind. ‘Truce here,’ he spat, sealing it. Laughter boomed again, his thigh brushing mine accidental, electric jolt. Heart raced wild, skin prickled. Peeled back layers—soldier guilt, shared filth. Hands almost met over flames.
The Approach
He rose slow, mounted wheezing. Back turned—shirt gaped. Wound symmetric, pierced clean through. Gore peeked, impossible live. Truth slammed: dead. We all ghosts drifting. Innocence cracked wide—faith’s lie, life’s veil torn. No purity left, just raw hunger for whatever’s beyond. River mocked my pounding chest, old self drowned. Adult now, marked forever by that firelit stare, the almost-touch, the spit-pact thrill. No kid monk anymore. Changed, aching for the unknown pull downstream.
