Of all his scars, it is his favorite.

His grandsons ask for stories from his glory days and he tells them of the PirateLord he defeated and how the triple slash across his chest came to be. About the burns up and down his left arm and the jagged line all down his right. About the slash across his forehead, nearly hidden by his white hair.

His granddaughters ask for stories from his glory days and he speaks of the swordfights and the quick, deep cuts of the blades. He tells them of the brands on his calves and how one time he nearly lost his leg because he was too slow. They refuse to believe it—he is the best.

His daughter comes for her two and his son returns for his three. The children will tell their parents of his adventures, but the adults stopped believing long ago. And soon, even the youngest will grow too old for such tales.

He is almost glad. The sea has already taken too much.

He traces the scar across his palm and his wife raises his hand to her mouth, kisses the mark. “Will you never forgive yourself?” she whispers. “You did all you could.”

“No, Lizzie,” he replies, pulling her close. “Every time I look at your son, I see his face.” He shuts his eyes and listens to the roar of the ocean. “Every time I look at you, I see the life he should have had.”

“Darling,” she murmurs, “he would have forgiven you.”

“I know, luv,” he murmurs in return. “And that is why I cannot.”

The scar on his palm reminds him of his triumph—and his failure. He defeated a curse—and lost something far more valuable then he knew at the time.

He slips into bed and she follows, resting her head over his heart.

The next time one of the children asks for a story, he’ll tell them of the Blacksmith Prince, the Rogue, and the Lady who fought the Pirate King.

He falls asleep to the memory of a duel in blacksmith shop playing in his mind.