For
summations, finally. And a drabble tennis thing
starkissed and I are doing.
Prompt: 1. ten of swords - intellect, abstraction, perfection of thought, detachment from emotion or daily worries
He sat under a tree, eyes closed, his sheathed blade resting across his lap. The jewels encrusted in the scabbard winked and glinted and glittered in the gentle rays of the morning sun, filtered and revealed by the leaves and branches shifting in the wind. Above him, the sparrows fly and make their nest amidst the flowers.
It was spring.
The warrior sat in peace now, away from fields of toil and blood and time, ten years into the present and a step closer to ten years in the future. His sword was the only thing he had left; even his clothes were tattered, the soles of his shoes worn down to almost nothing. Yet he is content.
His sword is one that has never taken a life.