Estaban is my hero. He always has been. He disagrees with me, but it’s true. He says to me, “Ramona, why do you think so highly of me?” and I just smile at him and laugh.

“Because you are beautiful, brave, and modest. For someone so ordinary, you are extraordinary to me.” I tell him.

Estaban is a soldier, I am a nurse. We came to this training camp together from a small fishing town near Cádiz. We grew up together, playing on the docks. My feet would get caught in the fishing nets, and he would always untangle me. Though we have never shared a romance, I love him. I love how his dark hair and complexion bring out the gold in his hazel eyes. I love the way he uses words when he can find them, and I love the expression he gets when he thinks or sees something so amazing that he cannot find them. He looked at me that way once, but it was only once.
When I see him come out of his tent in full armor with a helmet tucked under his arm and a sword at his hip I can’t help but have a moment of paralyzing fear that he is leaving me and won’t be coming back. However, I know that he has the strength to claim victory. He has beaten nearly all opponents in training, yet his officers and fellow soldiers don’t think much of him because he is so humble. They hardly know he exists.
We are set to leave for the new world next week. The king claims that there is gold there, so we are going to subdue the natives and find it. I am forbidden to leave the ship, but Estaban promises to tell me everything about the land on the journey back.
The voyage is uneventful. I treat the sick, and some die, but some always die. We have accepted that. When we land I give Estaban a kiss for good luck before he leaves with the troops. I put on a brave face and a smile for him, but inside I am terrified. This land is foreign and alien to us. We do not know exactly what to expect here, what creatures, what dangers, and certainly not what the natives are capable of. I just hope that he comes back to me carrying a stretcher and not lying on one.

Estaban steps out of the rowboat onto the beach. Not far away is a jungle like he has never seen. It is alive with rich greens and vibrant reds, and hums with a drumbeat of insects. He is not afraid though, a very small amount of things frighten him, death is not one of them. He is not keen on violence, but he has no aversion to it when it is necessary.
And necessary it is, for just as the last foot soldier dismounts the boats, a swarm of natives comes running from the lush jungle.
8
Estaban readies himself and draws his sword. With a roar he charges into the crowd of painted heathens. He finds it easy to defeat some, and more difficult others. He gets caught up with one native donned in a leafy headdress with a stick through the bridge of his nose. The primal man is armed with a
club, and manages to crack it against Estaban’s skull before the Spaniard ends him. Though now dizzy and struggling to see straight as blood stings his eyes, Estaban powers forward. He ignores the pain the best he can, knowing that the moment he surrenders is the moment he dies. The passion for life drives his killer blade, keeping him safe. The fire in his chest manages to burn clear the pain in his head, and Estaban is left with victory at the battles end.
All at once, the fog of pain and blood from the blow to his head comes back to Estaban, and he collapses into the sand, staining it red.

He comes back to me on the stretcher after all. He is so covered in blood that I can hardly tell it is even him. It mats his hair and cakes his brows and long dark lashes. I try to wake him up so that those beautiful amber-green eyes can tell me that everything is alright, but I can’t. For a moment I hold back a scream thinking he’s dead, but I feel his warm breath blow softly on my cheek.
A tear that was for grief but is now relief falls from my eye onto his cheek. It turns pink and leaves a trail down his face. I swiftly clean his face and bandage his head, but he does not wake up. I try to rouse him by talking to him, shaking his shoulder, but it does not work. Soon I am pulled from his side to treat others, and though I went most unwillingly I knew I had to.
It is weeks into our voyage home. Gold was found and there was celebration, but Estaban did not join in their merriment. He still has not woken up. Every so often his breathing gets so quiet that I think him dead once more, but he is still very much alive, and quite healthy despite his endless slumber. I like to think that the reason he is not dead is because of his brave soul, that he refuses to surrender to death. I don’t know if he will win this battle with fate, but I have faith that my Estaban can indeed. His warrior’s spirit runs deep through his blood and bones. He will win. He will survive.