Careful with that shard.

.
.
It was once a lordly, perhaps divine, weapon.  As with all things, time and use eventually cost wholeness so that only parts remain.  The once solid blade now resides as chunks of metal, wood, and adornments.  Aye, but some of those pieces maintain an unearthly sharpness.  Tend them in the name of nostalgia, in honor of their deeds, or for whatever reasons are found to be noble, but with care.  The will, of course, isn't in the pieces or memory, but in the care tendered, and those who do so.

Dreams of a beautiful death denied, and end of an era personally, professionally, and politically.  Another world and time, when men did what they should, and when leaders were sane enough to know good from evil.  Those leaders who believed in good defeated those who were weaker forms of evil.  It wasn't simple, even in those days.  Some evil had to be simply watched, for going after all evil can blind a good eye and turn it to just another form of evil.  So it is in life, it is in war and politics, even in love.

Slated to die, an assumption already made.  Of the many swords sent out to never return, a standard issue of my sort.  The only one of my lot that did return, but not whole.  Encased in glass, held as honorable, but with no interest in such for most of my time.  I have done what I could to return to be with the other lost weapons.  Failing that, I have surrendered to existing as is.  But, I have done what I may to ensure I am not... loved for what I am not.  Yes, that is why, with the stories of gore and glory, I also make sure to add the human, the mistaken, the wrong.  False idols, false flags, I will have none of it.  Even if I must make you choke on thoughts you would rather not consider.  A weapon, indeed.  And to this day.  Be careful.  Just let me be.  No dues are owed that have not been paid in full, and then some.  A shame to my nature.  With the givens, it is what must be.

And yet, I do dream of that beautiful death.  I did find it, you know.  Not just a combat death, but an artistic and tragic one.  Not alone in it.  I shared with the taker of my life the loss of his life and his brothers as well.  Whether he was cheated, as I was, I do not know.  But I remember the look on his face as we parted, both to go to our deaths after sharing our beautiful moment.  A pained look, an ashen face, a blur, and we danced no more together.  Russian, most likely.  When I woke from the remnants of his death gift, things changed.  It is a new world when you go and come back.  And so it was, and the beginning of the shattering of the blade I once was.

Good day.