His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command.

If this were a cartoon, the sword would have a face, one with lots of lines and a long white beard. As Priam attempted to lift it, the sword would groan and say, “No dice, soldier, I’ve been around the block too many times. It’s just not happening.”
Then Priam would shout at it, “Come on you old bounder. This is it. You don’t lift now. You’ll never lift again. Come on now lift!”
And the sword shakes his head (or his blade, really) and says, “Nope. Not doing it.”
Priam tries to reason with it. He reminds, the sword of all the battles they’ve won together. He calls up all the throats they’ve cut. All the limbs they’ve gashed, all the stomachs they’ve gored.
But still the sword lies where it falls. He tells Priam that it’s not like it used to be and he’s sorry but he just can’t move. And he just won’t.

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