Wednesday, July 15, 2015

“I will be the sword in shadows, the gleaming knife’s edge between here and _there_.”

He could remember, more or less. He’d said those brash words; he was certain. He had taken the Spanish sword down from his father’s mantel. He had stalked off into the night. Martin knew this to be true.

The great house, once his home, loomed drunkenly before him, an emptied shell of splinters and neglect. Martin sat heavily upon the creaking steps. Whitewash scales chipped away beneath the nails of his remaining fingers.

He knew he said those silly words, but he could remember it as a fact only. There was so much distance between the hoary warrior and the cocksure child, Martin’s mind harbored no sights nor sounds.

He remembered that his mother cried, but he could not bring to mind her fear mottled face nor tear swollen eyes. His father had screamed, though the words, pitch, and tone had chipped away to nothing. So much of his memories were facts rather than feelings, bulleted lists rather than experience.

Eventually the clouds shifted. Light found its way towards his bad eye. Martin adjusted his patch and limped back into the loud living woods.

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