Blood on the Blade

You would recognize their hands anywhere. Calloused palms, trembling fingers. Their grip is weak on your handle, your weight too much for these damaged hands.

But you are a sword. You are made for holding. You adjust their grip, however you can; mold your handle to their twisted fingers, turn your leather rugged so you cannot slip off their hands. They are your rightful wielder, in all the ways that matter. They were not the one your blacksmith forged you for, but they are the one your steel consented to be forged for. Your nature is just as important as fate.

“■■■■■■■,” they call out. It’s a name you cannot hear, for you have no ears. It’s a name you cannot hear, for it no longer exist; it has been clobbered, reforged, turned into something unrecognizeable from who she used to be. This is the name of the girl you used to be. This is the name of the girl you were forged from. (Theseus, oh Theseus! How much of a plank can the boat claim to be? How much until the plank is no longer a plank? There is a girl, and there is a sword. Where is the line? Where is the line?)

“■■■■■■■!” Water falls onto your blade. It’s salty. “■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■!”

You are a sword. You do not have desires. You barely even have a consciousness at all. But you were forged from emotions- from rage and hatred and fear and the worst suffering known to man. And love. You were forged from so, so much love. What can you do but hum back at this call? What can you do but respond in any way you can?

Something warm and soft is pressed against the flat of your blade. Flesh. That, you know well. It strokes you up and down, as if seeking to warm your steel up.

You don’t mean to bite. Perhaps you cannot help it; you are a sword. It is in your nature to cut. Or perhaps it was an offering on their part. You do not know. You do not think.

What you know is this: there is blood running down your blade.

You drink it, greedily. It’s theirs; you know that for sure, though you couldn’t explain why. You drink it all, their blood, their love, their suffering. More salty water falls onto you, mixing with that blood.

“■■■■■■■. ■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■.”

You know. You know. You know.

You love them, this human. You love them because she loved them. You love them because she loved them strongly enough that this love would persist after death. You wish you could tell them that.

But you are a sword. You cannot speak. All you can do is love, and kill. So you will love them, and kill for them. As much as they need.