∴ A Burgeoning Will∴
It had always just been there – the sword; simple; the black leaf of its guard furling about a grip of green leather. As long as you can recall it’s hung over the fireplace, above the grey ashes and below the grey photographs. You never paused to wonder which ghostly daguerrotype face it belonged to – not until today. It had simply always been there – and so had you.
Had you ever had an inkling of an adventurer’s spirit, you’re sure you would have asked your grandmother to tell you the its story as she peeled potatoes over the sink. But she did not care for tales of high seas or great hunts. It’s that sort of story that gets people killed, she’d harrumph, before crossing herself and returning to the task at hand. No, she never did care to bring up the past – and so neither did you.
But now she is gone – save for the small round-framed photograph that now graces the mantle, beside those of the sons she both birthed and buried. She is gone from this house with her stews and her sewing and her stern sort of kindness, and you are alone. It is a terrible kind of wonder, you muse, to realise that nothing holds you to a place any more. Not the bricks and mortar of it, nor the tasks undone in the garden, nor the solemn pictures above the hearth.
Slowly, you reach for the sword, which has always been there, but which you have never held. You lift it from its hook and wrap your hand around that smooth green grip, the dark steel wrapping your knuckles in turn. Does it feel right? You’re not sure. But it’s something.
You turn from the mantle – from that rogue’s gallery of relatives whose adventures you’ll never know. It’s time to write your own adventure. You don’t know what that will be – but you know it won’t happen within these four walls.