A fist to the tree’s bark left a ripple of debris and cracks in its façade. The Fire’s Fury, the chosen one’s ability granted by the gods. Mairwen had always hated being shouldered with the burden of her strength. A black belt in her dojo as a girl, her masters had groomed her for a greater purpose.
“You will be needed in the coming war, Mairwen.” Her master had told her that a thousand times.
Her monastery had been neutral, a peace-loving organisation. It made it all the harder for Mairwen to accept this ‘destiny’ that had been thrust unto her. Her brothers and sisters were gentle, using their bodies in combat to gain strength and an understanding of suffering, not for war. But Mairwen had grown up knowing her reason for existing was to be a weapon. For a war that hadn’t even started, that the monks couldn’t even guarantee would happen in her lifetime.
She practiced, day after day, on the great tree of the monastery; it’s trunk stronger than any stone or flesh. The only material that could withstand her attacks. Mairwen struggled as her fist drummed into the tree for the third hour of the day, the blood trickling down her fingers.
Today's prompt: black belt
If you'd like to participate too, the contest can be found here: @mariannewest/day-1565-5-minute-freewrite-wednesday-prompt-black-belt
