Hello, everybody. This is a companion piece to a story I posted a little ways back, titled News of Home. I like that one better, but this wouldn't leave me alone, so now it's here.
Also, a huge, huge thanks to everyone who took the time to review my two earlier stories.
Steel Threads
Everyday for four years I've carried this sword. I've used it in battle, used it for safety and for reassurance.
It has been a part of the lives of all the great men I've known: it was commissioned by my father, given to a friend and crafted by my love. The sword was stolen, as were their lives.
I hated it, at first. Hated that it was on my ship, loathed the very sight of it. It was horrible to me that Will would send it here, that it would be his first message. How could he possibly think I would take any type of comfort from it?
But I never let go of it.
Over time, I realized that it was much more than the hated weapon of my nightmares. It was forged by my husband and, yes, used to kill him. But, in his later life, his after life, it was his sword to wield. He knew every nuance of the handle, every shift in weight. He was its creator and, in a way, it was more a part of him than of James, who carried it for three years.
It represented strength, stability and honor to both my father and James. It represented hard work and skill to my husband.
It was almost everything to me.
It hasn't left my side and has never been brandished by another since our son first spotted it in the ocean. Until today.
Our son is nearly nine and looks more like his father every day. I am constantly reminded of the boy who was rescued from the sea so many years ago. His laugh, his movements, his smile and especially his eyes, are all Will's.
He has seen blood, seen swords clash and cannons fire. But on my orders he has never been pressed to service. And, for good or bad, my reputation when it comes to our son has all but assured his safety at an enemy's hands. I am the Pirate King, after all. And, everyone knows that his father can mete out a punishment worse than death by his old sword.
However, the last time we ran into Jack, he mentioned that sword fighting is more than a survival skill. It is an art, a craft. I have never thought of it that way. Swords have always been for protection.
Jack also mentioned that Will could handle a sword better than most soldiers. Or pirates, for that matter.
I suppose the decision to pass the sword to our son was made on that day. So, this morning, in the privacy of my cabin, I told him the story of the sword. It is a story he has heard many times, but today I tried imprint upon him the magnitude of responsibility that came with carrying a sword with such a history. He now represented all the great men who carried it before him. He very graciously listened to me drone on about family and honor and hard work. He was adamant about carrying it by his side, although he was too small to wield it. He wanted to look the part of the pirate. I am not sure he understood or cared about all I was trying to tell him.
But he insisted that only his father would teach him how to use it. Next year.
