It didn’t have a name. In fact, he (as it liked to think of itself) and his Master had never spoken. But as the hand choked his hilt, the Sword felt that bond they’d always had from the moment they’d set foot on the practice field together.
Now as he sliced through the air, the Sword became an extension of his Master. He was not steel and his Master flesh. They were indivisible, scorching enemies as one. Alone the Sword could feel nothing. But through his Master he felt dry and wet, brittle and rock. He had purpose and direction. His forging was not in vain.
Air rushed over him as he swung up and over and down like a well-timed dance. Steel clashed on steel, echoing through his metal skin. The Sword shook and rebounded, striking his opponent again, harder until he shattered the hard metal shell. One down, the Sword seized more enemies, he and his Master in perfect synchronization.
The Sword could remember a time when he felt limp in his Master’s hand at their first meeting so long ago. The Sword did not know of all the sensations he now longed for when closed away in the dark. Now to plunge and slice, shatter and cut. To feel the wet liquid that warmed his metal being as it slid across his curves and dripped off. They were more than sensations now. They were freedom.
As all the years they’d spent together seemed to collide in this one battle, the Sword’s accuracy suddenly faltered. The strength wielding him collapsed and the Sword plunged toward the earth. Mud oozed over him, filling the carvings surrounding the hilt. The Sword sunk into the slop, waiting in the darkness.