Through the Glass, part 2

As promised, to everyone's surprise, the story continues.

We rejoin our hero after his quiet traverse across the wilderness and following the assent of the concrete castle. The games recommences as the youth tap a slightly deflated and dilapidated futbol soars across the musty cavern of a hallway.

It is in this adventure the youth find their joy not necessarily in the game's ends but more so in the cheating fun of pushing, wrestling, and falsely truced alliances scourging the game instead. Revenge not only expects a righteous seat but bows low in thanks when she is encouraged. Pinching, poking, prodding. Jabs, juts, jams. Wall slams, open field shoves, and unsuspected foot tripping skip playfully on this battlefield.

Eventually, when all the guests arrive, the prince's sister escorts the celebrated royalty to his well-contoured throne where we marinate his with lavish flattery on his special day. Though this day belonged to him, I protruded as the welcomed and honored guest at the occasion. As if the presumed righteousness of my presence required some reciprocation, both mother and father of this young prince fervently piled the dish in my hands with unceasingly amounts of pizza, apple slices, chocolate cake, and assorted candies. For just as apart of "the family" of the Godfather, when in the home of an Egyptian they commit to making you an offer you can't refuse [done in a gross Italian-Egyptian accent]. Its customary, an insult if you refuse to eat anything offered to you by your generous host. I had heard this before yet it took 3 months before I could fight my way into a true Egyptian home to experience it firsthand.

We implored God for a blessing on the boy. The royal party slighted me a bit in Arabic, all in good fun; then the prince's most trusted warrior guided me on foot across the treacherous hills back to familiarity. Though little depth was bled from the conversation, a bond was struck between this faithful coursing mercenary and my soul. Bound by what may only be shear sensation and speculation, I crave to teach this young lad the tactics of a warfare he knows naught of.

We shall see. My lingering fear pierces with a thought of my abandonment in a mere 6 months. Do we undertake and break his spirit and mine, or shall we let the heart continue on in this hardened state leaving it only to sink faster in the dark sands of a naively ransacked perspective? Though I wish it were not so, the answer bathes in crystal water.