The Ink In-Between: An Anthology

Let Me Be Yours

PROMPT: Write from the perspective of an inanimate object.

CW(s): implied violence and war crimes. 

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I wasn't always a sword, you know?

I was a man once.

But not just any man.

I was a soldier and a knight, made for battle and always eager for the kill. I spilled rivers of blood and saw many other great men fall at my feet. I stood at the very top, the greatest of the great, they said.

Then I went ahead and killed a witch.

And, suddenly, I was a sword.

I couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't see nor hear. There was no hunger, no desire for anything, not even sleep. All I could do was feel. Feel the soil, the blades of grass and the wind, the warmth of day and the cold of night.

It was hell. My own personal purgatory, taken straight from the mind and mouth of a deranged hag in her last dying breath.

I honestly thought I would spend the rest of this weird cursed existence stuck in the middle of a field somewhere, staring down at a possible eternity with nothing but my own thoughts to fill the nothingness.

But then you came out of nowhere and picked me up.

A woman.

But you weren't just any woman, no. I could tell just from the way you gripped my hilt and swung my blade. You were a warrior.

A savage.

Same as the ones whose blood I'd sworn to paint these lands with, whose life I'd sworn to end in the name of the Crown.

I could almost taste the sweet irony in the blood of my fellow knights dripping down my steel.

Your steel.

If I were a man, I would've chosen death over this humiliation. But I wasn't a man anymore. I was a sword, with no say in the mater, and glad to be put to some use, even by a savage like you.

At least you were a warrior, I thought. And even I had to admit, that you were a good one. You were erratic, unrefined, driven by pure instinct, but you got the job done. You had to be good, to have survived so long in a war-torn land against an entire army.

I thought you were using me to escape, to reach the northern shores and sail away, like the rest of your people. But years have passed, and you're still here.

I never did figure out why. The most I could guess was that you were looking for someone, just from the way you used me to sift through the ashes and bones that covered the burnt down villages of your people.

But that didn't make much sense. You had to know they, whoever they were, would be dead by now. I know you know that. You've seen the burnt corpses of your people hanging from your sacred trees. You must've.

I know, because I've lit some of those flames.

"Burnt to a crisp, so not even their Gods can find them..."

That could be your fate, if you keep at this. If you don't forget whatever or whoever it is you're looking for and leave these death-filled lands.

And yet you keep trying.

You headed south instead of north. Hoping from village to village, with me strapped to your back, you persisted and caused trouble wherever you went. For every man and monster you slayed, there were dozens more bodies you buried and prayed for, slaves and prisoners you freed, and helpless souls you lend a hand to.

And I helped you do it.

At first, I'd say to myself that your death was inevitable, so why prolong the suffering? You were obviously on a suicide mission. Why stop you?

But whenever you came near the edge, I'd find myself thinking no, this isn't a god day to die. Not today. There's one more village we can visit, one more battle to be had. Just keep going. Just give us one more day.

And as days turned to months, and months turned to years, we grew stronger together. There was a connection there, magic or not. I'd cry out for you, to aid you in battle, and it's like you heard me. I'd get knocked out from your hands or thrown in the air, and I'd always come back to you, always landed just where you needed me to, saving your life in the nick of time.

It was the nothingness, I thought. I was afraid of going back to it. What if you died, and years went by and no one found me? I seem to be unbreakable, so I wouldn't even get the final mercy of death.

I could never die in battle, or rust with time. I'd spend an eternity alone. That's why I had to stick with you. Anyone would've done.

But then... someone did steal me from you. Another knight. And all I could think about was that I didn't want this. It just didn't feel right, the hands, too big, the fighting, too predictable, the taste of innocent blood, too bitter.

I wanted to go back to you.

And I did. You fought through hell and back to get me. Me, a former soldier, who's killed countless of your people and gotten himself cursed into a sword through sheer stupidity and arrogance.

I know you have no idea who I am. To you I'm just some sword, like any other. But it doesn't stop the swelling in my chest. It doesn't erase the fact that, to you, I'm worth saving.

You came back for me.

And there's no one I'd rather come back to.

I wonder if you know. How many more lives I've saved in your hands, than I ever did as a soldier, or how much fun I have fighting or just training with you, when all that mattered to me back then was how much blood I spilled.

How nice the simplest things feel to me now, like the soft feeling of the cloth you use to swipe me clean, or the way your calloused fingers trace the markings on my steel. How nice it is to feel the vibrations of your voice resonating in my blade when you hum a song to me.

And, really, the true humiliating thing in this is the realisation that I'm a better person now, as a sword, than I ever was as a man.

So, even if sometimes all I wish is to turn back into a human so I can run to you when I'm not near, or hear the words you speak and say something back when you talk to me, or just... God! Share my warmth with you when you're cold, or hold your hand when you cry yourself to sleep, to show you you're not alone, ... I... I...

I can't.

Not because I don't know how to lift the curse, or if it can even be lifted in the first place. But because I know, for a fact, that if I were a man, you'd cut my throat. And I wouldn't even blame you for it.

And that's because I don't deserve you as a man.

So I might as well be your sword.

And, hey, maybe one day, when your journey finally ends, I'll get to be there with you, held firmly in your hands. I'll get to be the last sword of a great warrior, as all the great warriors of your ancestors greet you with open arms in the beautiful halls of the Gods.

And if my God really is forgiving, then maybe He'll let me stay too, right there, in your hands, where I belong, for all eternity.

I don't know about you, my great, dear warrior, but that sounds a lot like heaven, doesn't it?

I wasn't always a sword, you know.

But I'm glad that I got to be yours.