I miss his hands. The way they told his whole history on his palm - the calluses just below his thumb and at the base of his fingers, the scar across the soft skin between his pointer finger and thumb. I miss the way his hands stirred stew hanging over the fireplace in a copper pot. I miss the way they picked sprigs of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling - thyme, lemon basil, sage. I miss the way the herbal smell would mix with that of the cabin's spruce wood walls. I miss him handing me a wooden bowl, a warm and delicious meal just for me. I miss how it was so cold and snowy outside, yet his home and his hands were so warm. I miss how it was dark, but not in a way that scared me. It was like being under a blanket, protectively covered by the cabin's safety of bricks and wood and stone, all built by his hands, illuminated only by the warm fireplace and the softly-glowing lanterns in their iron cages hanging from the ceiling. I miss the way those hands would hold a sword, moving it as if it was a part of his own arm. I miss the deep tones of his voice, sounding as warm and safe as his home, as he corrected my footing with a nudge of his wooden sparring blade. I miss the way I'd feel his hand push gently down on my shoulder, “Lower your center, boy.” The way he'd lightly smack me upside the head, “Focus, boy. Can't afford to have your head in the clouds.” The way he'd place that safe hand on my cheek and run his thumb over the bleeding cut just below my eye, “Who did this to you?” Funny, how someone can go through years of war, see so much death, build so many calluses on those hands, and yet still be so gentle. How someone can loom over you, stand more than a foot taller than you, with the broad chest and shoulders of a real tank of a man with plenty of scars to match, and yet still be so gentle.

I miss the way he barely smiled, yet he didn't need to, how over time I learned to understand every small glance of his eyes or tiny twitch of his lips. I miss the way he'd put his hand on the back of my head and press his forehead against mine - “This is what is called a warrior's embrace,” he had told me in his mother tongue. I miss every lesson in which he’d teach me how to speak it, the harsh consonants made in the back of the throat, the reverberating vowels I'd hear rumbling in his chest. I miss him teaching me how to read and write the ancient-looking runes of its alphabet, of those callused hands which were meant for gripping swords and axes now lightly maneuvering a piece of fragile charcoal across a papyrus page. I miss when I'd correctly pronounce and spell new vocabulary and he'd tell me, “Good job, boy.” I miss when my footwork was correct, when I moved through all my stances perfectly and he'd tell me, “Good job, boy.” I miss when he first handed me that wooden bowl of warm stew and I ate it all after eating nothing but scraps for weeks and he told me, “Good job, boy.”

I miss feeling like an accomplishment, feeling like some ever-improving thing, wanting to better myself because I wanted to be like him. I miss having someone I wanted to make proud, someone I could look up to, someone who taught me all his wisdom, someone I could listen to and want to hold onto every word. I miss being his student, not just some face in a crowded classroom, but his. I miss being his apprentice. I miss being his boy, him teaching me how to be a man. I miss being seen by him. I miss feeling special, like only I could be taught what he was teaching me. I miss feeling like I deserved to be loved by someone as amazing and as wise as him, that I deserved the gentle kindness he was capable of showing. I miss being kind to him in return. I miss the way my heart felt before it turned bitter and sad. I miss when I was able to control my emotions, because he taught me how to do so. I miss taking deep breaths, sitting cross-legged beside the fireplace, or moving slowly through my sword stances as he watched and guided me. I miss when the world was smaller, when it was just me and him in his cabin, surrounded by the smell of spruce and dried herbs.

I miss when his hands held me. I miss when his hands held me.

Master, I am trying to learn your language again.

I remember the stories he told me at night as we sat around the fire. Sometimes we were at home - sitting by the fireplace inside, or by the firepit outside behind the cabin - as what we hunted that day roasted on a spit over the flames. Sometimes we were out traveling and we camped out in a grassy clearing surrounded by trees, sitting beside a campfire that cooked the mushrooms and wild parsnips we had foraged. I remember the calm, cool air of spring at night, the fresh feeling of it in my lungs. I remember the sound of the windchimes hanging by the window outside the cabin, and the sound of the crickets in the woods. Sitting beside him, I would usually have my hands busy - cleaning or sharpening my blade, or notching the ends of newly-carved arrows so I could then fletch them with feathers. And beside me, he would tell stories in the deep, soothing tones of his voice - the tales of the rabbit in the moon, of the boy who lived amongst the wolves, of the glorious heroes of the ancient past. I remember how his hands would move, emphasizing his words with gesture. And I remember sitting there, listening in awe, eyes wide and perceptive, not wanting to miss a moment. I remember being able to focus in that quiet space; no music, no conversation - just his stories, the fire crackling, and the sounds of the woods. My shoulders would relax and my jaw would unclench. I remember taking slow, deep breaths of the cool air of spring at night, and being able to feel calm.

I would love to listen to stories around the fire again.