The Scabbard of Stone

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Days, Years, Decades he had sat in the dark cold marble tomb, Sleeping, walking, dreaming: dreaming of the day when some mighty warrior would pull him free and he would fly into battle again, shining and sharp, but for now, he was sleeping, waking, and dreaming in the marble tomb. How long had he sat there? How long since the tall black haired man with yellow eyes and flowing robes had spoken to him, told him one day he would be freed and wielded by a mighty king, and then he had imprisoned him in this dark, lifeless, marble tomb? How long since he had last seen battle? Was it days? Years? Decades? Time had no meaning; all there was was dark, marble, and cold. At first many had tried to free him, but none had what was required and so after a few mighty, futile tugs at his hilt they would leave and he would be alone, again. Summer, spring, winter, fall. Wind, rain, snow, sun the marble block seemed impervious to the elements; it could not be broken by sword, hammer, mace or axe. It was impenetrable by mortal or immortal means and still he dreamed of the day the mighty king prophesied by his jailer would come and free him and together they would lead armies across oceans to the ends of the world! Yet for who knows how long the king had stayed away. For what seemed like forever he was alone, alone with the monotony, nothing but sleep and dreams.

A hand grasped his hilt, warmth spread through him; the marble prison loosened its grip! The King was here! He was pulled free and he gazed at the King! His spirits sank; the king was not more than twelve years old! He was better off in the stone.





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