There's a cut on the back of his hand. Not serious. Though the sword was large, the man was a careful teacher. He picks at it still, despite the rope, fearing it will not scar.
There's a burn on his arm, from carelessness and a campfire, not fireworks as it should be, and never will.
There's a scar across his palm, from a kitchen knife when adventures ended before supper, and never left one cold, battered and bound.
And carried ahead, there's another scar, brother to his own. He wonders if they still match, and which will become the souvenir.