The Blessed Blade
“I part upon thee, the blade brandished by your father, your grandfather, and your grandfather’s father,” the queen held a sheathed longsword.
Commoners and royals alike filled every seat in the large church, for no one would dare ignore an invitation from the queen.
Two guards watched from a raised balcony. Sluggishly leaning against their armaments they watched for danger like the others patrolling the temple.
Ronald, the older of the two, a grizzled war-weary soul, leaned closer, “Would you accept the title?” he whispered.
“What?” the other guard, Thurio, whispered back.
“If you were a son of Alaric, if you were gifted the blade, would you?”
“The sword of Alaric? You joke! Anyone would accept a sword with its powers! Who wouldn’t?”
“You don’t know?”
“I guess not.”
“The sword was powerful enough to defeat the darkness that threatened our world, but it was also cursed.” Ronald said.
Clad in finely polished armor, a young man knelt before the queen.
She gently unsheathed the sword and rested it upon his head, “By speaking the rite you shall be bound to this sword until death, may it serve you as well as it has your ancestors.”
“It was not cursed when wielded by Alaric,” Thurio responded to Ronald’s preposterous proposition.
“Not all curses are conspicuous. I asked its prior owner, he seemed to think of it as having a conscience, as if it talked to him,” Ronald replied.
“Yeah, you talked to Alaric,” Thurio sarcastically chuckled.
“I served under his banner, fought beside him, became his companion. By the end he was insane.”
“He was the best warrior this world has ever seen. How can you question him?”
“He said,” Ronald ignored Thurio, “The voice told him how many souls he vanquished, and that when the sword deemed itself satisfied, Alaric would meet his end.”
“You are the only insane one in this city. Alaric did not die to his own blade. He fell in battle as any valiant soldier should,” Thurio disbelieving muttered.
“You sound absolute.”
The queen reached into a small urn on a nearby table. Waving her hand, a fine layer of ash covered the blade and the knight. As the ashes fell, fine calligraphy engraved along the blade ignited in a blue glow, “Draw me with honor, for before the souls of my enemies are vanquished, you shall wield me with superior grace than thy adversary.”
The meaningless whispered conversations halted as the queen spoke the rite. The blue light grew brighter, shining down onto the knight.
The knight rose, took the sword in both hands and thrusted it high above his head. A cacophony of claps and cheers erupted from the church.
Unnoticeable to the onlookers, the knight’s head slightly shifted. As if an unexpected voice was speaking.
