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Lost an arm defending a young lady, who ignored him thereafter because of his low birth. Or how a monk provided him with a full supper, but he surrendered it to another beggar who stole his clothes later that night . many stories like these, until finally I invented a story in which the swordsman saved the lives of a family, and the family welcomed him as one of their own. And the other children laughed at that. They beat me. They told me that the story cannot be changed. The end must always be the same. The swordsman will die penniless, broken. And I felt so powerless when they said that. He rests his head in the hollow between her neck and shoulders. Such a silly memory. But when you have no parents, you are drawn to other 
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people, even if they do not exist. The swordsman always dies. It would be one thing if he died once, and life goes on, but every time the story is told, he dies again. Perpetual agony. I couldn't bear it when I was young. And now? Now I am writing the story again. With a flourish, he presses the tips of his fingers to his chest. You're still a child, she laughs. He says nothing to that - his mind is mulling over small but crucial details, such as where the sheath that houses his sword should be worn - at his side? across his chest? - or whether it is  |
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