Scabbard

He sits on the log, a stump really, one hand gripping the scabbard, and the other sliding the blade in and out, no doubt imaging that each thrust is into some enemy, maybe one that his father defeated, or more likely, one bigger and tougher, one that only he could take down, and while he's imagining, it is no effort at all to heft the massive sharpened metal in one hand, to swing it simply, an extension of his arm, to slice through an opponent like cutting the air with sticks down by the creek, to perforate a body like the thin film of ice that forms in the morning in springtime, but really the only body he wants to come into contact with is behind the house, and used to strap the scabbard on and give him a kiss on the head and then ride away, promising to come home soon, and in a way he did, but if his father could break that promise, however unintentionally, then he could break the promise of not taking up the sword, and anyway if his father hadn't wanted him to have it he should have kept wielding it, but that of course is impossible now, him even doing a poor job at keeping the grave marker upright, and so he rams the sword into the scabbard, the heart of the man, although in a field of battle he imagines it isn't even possible to say who was responsible, but he doesn't care, he will cut down every soldier, every rider, every guard at the gate, every impediment to his revenge, even his fear, which he presently gives in to and hides the scabbard down by the creek in the old log, the scabbard that went missing at the funeral, and runs in to supper before his mother scolds him.