It is often strange to consider the parallel lives of others. That there is someone just like anyone else in another home, another camp and tavern, another land. Yet so similar are the differences of some, that but for a change of banner or flag, those parallel lives would be the same.
There might be some with the same loves and passions, honing their craft or skill in their own home or amidst others of their kin. For some it might be the hunt or the butchering of the hunted, for others the perfect movement of the wrist to perfect a letter, stitch or carving of wood. For others, it might be the perfect balance of breath between bow draw and arrow loose, or the swing of sword and thrust of spear.
Yet for all these works and actions, for what words or motivations that might drive them, it is strange to see how often such parallel lives meet. Whether by choice or by bond, the hunter might be stalked by another hunter, the archer pierced by another’s arrow, and the swordsman or pikeman stabbed or butchered by another’s sword, spear and intimate knowledge of flesh.
But it is not the violent alone who may meet such a parallel. Those of the stitches might find their armor second to another’s, or their wounds open just enough to allow infection. And those who carve might meet their end by a club weight better than their own. But those who write and weave words on flesh and parchment might meet the worst end of them all. For theirs is not a weapon of war which lends itself to a quick death. Theirs are the weapons who inspire true hatred to some and unbridled joy to others. It is their parallel lives that, once met, can be only a tragedy to one and blessing to the other.