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her hair away with a bare arm, and as she does so he grabs hold of her wrist. So surprising that this thin, pale instrument is capable of such force. But he must believe it, for she is slapping his impudent hand away, and laughing the hard laugh of a bar patron. Shaded in the crags, they lie together, their robes and skin intermingled, as the sun disappears in shards among the trees. The cicadas are active this evening, and they seem to be everywhere. The would-be warrior reaches out, eyes half-closed, intent on capturing just one of them, for they must be so close to whisper so loudly to them, but his hand only encounters air and the presentiment of a hot summer. She asks him: What is your saddest memory? 
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He stares at the sun in all its blinding force, and he tells a tale of a swordsman, unassailable in strength, dignity, and generosity, but forever begging for scraps, his sword perversely unstained even as his clothes and body withered. No family, no fame, no honor, only the shaking of heads, a warning to all those who would be so bold as to be different. Of what use are skills if they do not apply to the world? And so the swordsman wasted away, living with the dogs and pigs, until finally he simply expired, his body collapsed in the courtyard of a merchant's mansion. Even to the end, he was a beggar, they said. But no one touched the body, no one even took the sword, for they knew his was a cursed lot, and the merchant's family moved away, because this corpse was like a contagion.  |
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