David pulled a scrap of a photo out of his pocket, it was torn and creased. DAvid studied the people in the picture, Arianna and himself. They were holding hands and smiling at the camera. David closed his eyes, he could remember that day as if it were yesterday. They had gone to the fair, Arianna had beaten him in the carnival games. They had ridden the Farris wheel, and cuddled under the stars. One of the carnival workers had agreed to take their picture.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
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