Anyway, here's something I wrote relatively recently. Hope you enjoy!
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I remember the battle.
It was a great battle - an army, against an army. I’d fought in many battles before, at one master’s side or another. I changed hands quite often - sometimes, I even changed sides. But that was to be expected when one master died, and another took you up in their place.
My master in this battle was a skilled warrior, and one of the few who’d possessed me for more than one battle. Most didn’t survive long; they killed my master, and then either they, or someone else, claimed me from the battlefield after everything was over, and then the next battle, the cycle repeated.
My master had owned me for so many that I’d lost count. But I knew it would not last. He was neither young, nor immortal. His movements were not as fast as they’d been the day he first claimed me. His strikes did not possess the same force, his parries trembled visibly beneath the strength and force of younger opponents.
I remember the ring of steel, clashing against steel. The roar of hundreds of human voices, roaring out war cries, screaming out in pain, moaning and groaning as they died, filled the air. The ground was stained, the dirt dark with blood, littered with bodies. My fallen brethren littered the ground too, abandoned in the dirt until the victorious side in the battle could gather them up and cart them off for their own use.
I remember hearing their voices on the wind, clear despite the noise of the humans. Many of them had been afraid, fearing a lonely existence in a dark, dusty room where they could not see the sunlight again until time dictated they could be used again. Others feared destruction, feared that their use had come to an end, and that they would be abandoned on the battlefield, left to rust amongst rotting corpses.
I’d whispered reassurances as I could, to those closest to me, but I’d been just as afraid as they were. My master’s strength had been failing, the longer we spent on the battlefield, and it left me fearing for my own fate. I would have urged him to retreat, to recover his strength, but he could not hear my voice. He never had been able to, and I doubted he ever would.
To him - to many humans - I was not a sentient creature to be listened to; I was just a thing to be used. I was the sword in his hand, the tool that ended the lives of hundreds of opponents, and brought my master fame and glory.
I was not surprised, during that battle, when I felt the dirt beneath my blade. I’d clattered to the ground, metal ringing on the scattered pebbles and abandoned brethren on the ground as I came to rest. Part of me had been expecting it, from the moment my master had drawn me from my sheath. Though my vision was limited, I’d still been able to see him fall, a spear buried in a weak point in his armour. I’d heard him hit the ground.
I’d heard the wet squelching as the weapon was yanked from his body none-too-gently, the mocking voices of both my master’s victorious opponent and the spear’s clear in the air over the battle. Both spoke almost exactly the same words, in almost exactly the same tone; taunting me, taunting my dying master, as they stepped over my master’s body, and moved out of my sight, seeking their next opponent to kill.
I remember my Master’s last words. I could always hear my master on the battlefield, no matter how loud it got.
“I am sorry, Zwei...”
I’d retreated into myself then, content to wait in the darkness of my blade until a hand wrapped around my hilt once again - a new master, another battle - and the roar of battle had dulled to a muted hum on the edges of my consciousness.
When I opened my eyes, some time later, it came as a shock.
