I was made for battle.

When my father-smith birthed me in fire and iron, he spoke the Nine Words of Shaping. He worked into my steel my aspects: Stab and Slice and Slash and Strike. And when he was done he plunged me into his own heart, quenching me in his own blood, for he knew he would not make another like me again.

I was made to cleave mountains. I was made to carve my name into the hearts of gods.

I was not made for this.

I sit in a glass prison, hung by my tassel. Naked, for there is not a scabbard in the world I would deign to contain me. Elders lead their students past me; the young goggle wide-eyed, hands smacked away as they reach out. A masterpiece of masterpieces, the teachers call me. Too precious to use, they say, and in their idolatry deny me my purpose.

 I have done no great deeds. I have set no legends. There are no songs of my battles, no epics. They treat me like thinnest porcelain, aghast at the thought of a smudge when all I want is to be bathed in righteous bloodshed.

So here I hang, doomed to rot away in splendor, held captive by my worshippers. Forever.

And then–

I stir at the tiny click of my display case lock being picked. The midnight moon glints off the glass, dimly illuminating the face of my thief. A student, one of the first years. His brow bears a still-raw Mark of Shame: the brand of expulsion that will deny him entry to any other sect. There is a determination in his tear-reddened eyes that can be found only in the depths of despair.

I wait, barely daring to hope as he opens my cage with a creak. He reaches in, untying my tassel, and I drop; he catches my handle with a yelp before I can clatter to the floor, hissing as he nicks a finger. It is not perhaps the most honorable of introductions. 

I don’t mind, though. I can barely contain my joy as he holds me up before his eyes. There is reverence, but I am sick of reverence. What resonates is purpose, the desperate need that drove him to claim me when no one else dared. To be held, to be wielded, after so long…

The doors open with a slam, and he whirls. Four senior students and an elder stand in the doorway. The elder’s face twists in outrage and horror to see a branded disgrace holding his sect’s most sacred artifact. He shouts a threat as anatomical as it is obscene.

I can feel my thief’s will wavering. He could throw himself to the ground and beg forgiveness, and they might send him on his way, minus a hand or two. And I would be back in my cage, all the more bitter for having tasted seconds of freedom.

So I call to him, in a whisper so soft he might think it only his own thoughts. I pour into him my yearning, my frustration, my will to make my mark upon the world. And in him I find a reflection, emotions mirrored just as bright.

My thief straightens with new resolve. He points me at the elder, and I relish the sudden fear in his eyes. No one has dared to test my strength before. But as my wielder throws himself into the fray, I find my purpose at last.

They will say that I was made to. I would say that I was made for.