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32 Amit Bobrov
and I complied, clenching my teeth.
“Older warriors of your type are often murderers, cut-throats,

and brigands, and they rank lower than thieves in honor,” he
said.
“I’m not a murderer! You wrong me!” I replied too quickly,
raising my voice.
“Do not raise your voice at me. Be silent and listen, boy!” He
yelled back, and I immediately sat down and lowered my eyes.
“Adam, you let your emotions cloud your judgment. You anger
too quickly and strike out at the slightest hint of provocation.
I’m trying to teach you how to be a better man, but you don’t

care to listen,” he said, and leaned back in his chair, crossing his
hands in front of his chest.
“What ever happened to the lost child I picked off the street?”
He asked, his pride wounded.
“I’m sorry, Master,” I replied, truly ashamed of myself.
“A warrior should not only be strong and win fights, he must
act with honor and responsibility at all times,” Ivar said, and I

nodded in my understanding.
“A warrior is above the common man, and should act
accordingly with nobility and more importantly, with restraint,
otherwise, he’s nothing more than a rabid dog and should be
dealt with as such.” Ivar explained.
“I understand,” I said.
“Killing is easy, anybody can kill …,” Ivar explained emotionally,
“… but who amongst us can raise the dead? Who can bring a
man back to life once his life’s spark has been extinguished?”

He asked with a passion I recognized, one which struck a chord.
“A simple flower, once crushed, cannot be revived even by
the wisest of men,” he continued as my thoughts wandered
elsewhere.