The Notched Blade

"No...'

It was not a statement, no an exclamation, not even an utterance. It was an exhalation that rose from the centre of the heart and was shaped by years of regret as it flowed through the throat, and tinged with sorrow as it left chapped lips.

"You must send your sword away and have it sharpened, remade if it must. But you will have it made as if new."

It was not a command, it was not an order, it wasn't even a statement. It simply was. To not heed the advice of the speaker was unthinkable. Not that people thought about it, but the warworn, scruffy old man was almost a part of the tavern itself. It was like your liver telling you you are drunk. It's not a statement, it's not a complaint, it is something that has happened, your opinion is irrelevant and if it is, in a few drinks more, it won't matter. You've drank, now you will be drunk. This is what happens, to not happen just does not happen. When the elder spoke, it was as if it already happened, and he is just waiting for you to do it.

"Congratulations on your victory in this town's sword fighting tournament. It is indeed a laurel in your cap, your father and mother should be proud, but the sword you use is notched."

A calloused hand slowly waggled a finger in the air in a motion of denial, the missing tip of his ring finger clearly obvious, the scars and bite marks on his hand telling a tale more fanciful than the Harbour's tournaments and fair games and games of the Faire.

"And so you are notched as well. You have come with a great victory, and now you are trying to drown yourself in ale to celebrate. That is...that is your right as a victor. But tomorrow you will get your sword remade. Because tomorrow you will feel your notches ever so keenly as the morning birdcall stabs through your mind and the sun pokes out your eyes, and the aches of this day set in. You made mistakes, oh yes. I was there young man."

A chuffling couch generates in the shoulders of the old man, shaking a scraggly beard as the air is cleared of the miasma that plagues the veteran. His frame that of a strong man becoming a wizened grandfather, shaking with the phantoms of a well spent youth.

"You, and your sword, are useless. Weak. Able to be snapped with ease. With every victory, the fighting has notched your blade. You would keep such notches to show your dominance? You keep such petty victories and it weakens you. You have a victory, and they have taken parts of your blade, you must now make your blade anew. And you yourself must be made anew. There will be a fighter who would defeat you. He will one day show up. Some men do not fight for gold, for women, for ale, but for the pleasure of fighting or to defend their loved ones. Take your blade and have it sent away and reforged. And when your weapon is gone, have your body reforged. Train, find the aches delivered today and turn your weakness to strength."

The old man slowly leans back, his clothes worn from traveling as opposed to bad living, slowly pulling a drink from his tankard as he finishes speaking.

"May it be that your enemy defeats you because he is your better, than because you were a notched blade."

It's not a comment that was aimed, really, at anyone in particular. Even as the words were spoken, the old man's eyes were clearly in the past, reliving something that spoke of the wisdom of survival than petty knowledge gained secondhand.

And even in the foggy past of yesteryear, the old man's eyes were still a bright, young blue.