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The young knight was brave but he lacked power,
so he so to beat his comrades, he went on a grand adventure.
After searching far and wide, he settled in a bower.
He had not grown stronger and feared he may have to surrender.

It was upon the night, curious and black,
That the nightly lights, creatures and stars alike
that revealed an eerily hidden ethereal track.
Thanks to his valor, the knight strode on and made the perilous hike.

At last, in the cave at the end of the path
The knight found the source of his power, the end to his blight
a sword alight with the stars of the night.
And so he took the sword, proud and full of honor, not knowing its wrath.

Take me with you, the sword cried,
And I shall grant you knowledge and skills from my years abound.
And so the knight decided the sword would be his guide,
for he had always wished for the experience he lacked and with it he’d be renowned.

Now, the sword looked holy and fair, but had no kindness to spare.
The cursed sword of ages old, haunting those who it dare hold.
For with the sword came great gift, but that was only the mask it would wear.
And the young knight, blinded with strength, was too bold.

When he returned home, all were impressed,
for home he had come with great skill and talent the sword had blessed.
To strike down his foes and to triumph among the warriors,
than he who was the sword carrier.

You are strong and unmatched, his comrades would say.
You have potential, far more than me the sword would cheer.
I’ll take your hand if you’d allow me the maiden would say with her bouquet.
I wish I had the skills of you his rivals would sneer.

But at long last, when his power was no longer new,
the sword finally decided to take its toll.
In return for its skill, the knight’s life it drew.
A knight was thought to wield the sword but this sword was in control.

With whispers like thorns from the trust they had formed,
the knight began to lose all mind.
For all had begun to hate him, despise him, envy him was what the sword informed.
And thus the rage of the sword had turned him blind.

Young knight, once full of valor,
now stood among a kingdom of corpses full of pallor.
For the sword’s sweet nothings were but a poison,
and the moment of connection will lead its wielder to live out its recurring treason.

With the last of his life,
the knight banished himself within snow and ice.
How he wished none would fall to his own strife,
and listen to the vigorous cursed sword filled with vice.

The Northern part of Faerghus was always cold. The winters were harsh, but it was the rest of the year that made it hard to live there. The weather warmed and the snow slowed, but the ground remained hard and barren of anything other than snow. Due to the year round cold, it was extremely difficult to grow crops or raise livestock in the north. Now, living in the northwest of Faerghus wasn’t quite as difficult, seeing as the ocean provided sustenance and materials the middle or eastern parts could not provide.

Many attempts to populate the northern parts of the kingdom had been made, both by the crown and the noble households who owned the territory. Some attempts were more successful than others, but, in the end, most ended in failure. Some said the land was simply uninhabitable. Others said it was cursed. Even more said that it was so uninhabitable because it was cursed. For, there had long been a tale passed through generations, detailing the curse in question. The northern region had not been cursed, but rather, a cursed object was located in the north.

Legends said—although these legends were now nothing more than a child’s cautionary tale—that an all-powerful yet all-cursed sword had been placed in the north so that no poor soul would fall victim to its tricks. In fact, this story was so well known by the people of the kingdom that over time, they’d started leaving out parts of the original story. Once the sword’s treachery was known far and wide, there had been no need to emphasize it in the story. One such section emphasized just how much the sword spoke to the young knight.

The knight had been surprised by the sword’s voice,
but the sword assured it was simply because of its magic.
And so the knight did not question when the sword would whisper its advice
for there was no reason to suspect the voice in his head no matter how problematic.

All citizens now knew that the sword had constantly spoken to the knight so that it could slowly lead him to his own destruction. The other cut section heavily implied the sword had done evil deeds in a past life. In this form—whether it had always been a sword or not was never specified—it led whoever wielded it down the same path of indiscriminate destruction it had taken.

The voice that had once whispered praise,
was tainted by the destruction it craved,
for the sword was indeed magic, cursed by its treacherous living days.
And so a path it paved, that others may act just as depraved.

Thanks to his upraising, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Kingdom of Faerghus was extremely familiar with the legend turned children’s story. In fact, his upbringing had allowed him to learn about the cultures of other countries, thus he knew about similar legends of foreign countries. His step mother had been from the nearby Adrestian Empire, and so when trying to bond with the young boy, she’d chosen to tell him about the legendary axe that helped chose the empire’s next ruler. It was a great story of becoming good and worthy so that the new ruler could successfully lead the empire.

Thanks to the familial relations and trade agreement with the next door Leicester Alliance, he’d been able to learn the story they told of an ancient axe one of the first leaders had been gifted by the goddess. They had been gifted this bow to defend themselves from the wicked beasts threatening their society. It was even said the bow had been used to slay a dragon.

Thanks to their continuous attempts at colonizing the north, they’d come across the Duscur people. After exchanging goods and techniques and gaining assistance in their colonizing attempts, Dimitri had met his childhood friend and retainer, Dedue. They’d exchanged stories and the like to become more familiar with one another’s cultures. Through this, Dimitri learned of a mythical spear that was so strong it could not break, and if one found and took care of it, they would be blessed with many bountiful hunts.

The stories had been fascinating to him, not only because he had a great desire to learn and improve himself in every way, but because it told him no matter where they came from, people were very similar. Thus, he prided himself on his knowledge. He knew it made him a good person and one day a good ruler as well. He’d admired and enjoyed all the stories. Until a few years ago.

Assassination was par for the course with royalty, so Dimitri was no stranger to it. A number of years ago, his father had almost died in an assassination attempt. Although he survived, he was hardly the same. He could not perform the duties of a monarch. Thus, as time passed, a variety of nobles had taken on the king’s duties. This had worked well enough for the first two years, but when another assassination was made on his father, everything was ruined. Both his father and his step-mother had not survived. After such a tragedy, the line of succession stated he would become the next sovereign. He was not ready. And so, his uncle—his father’s brother—had become regent so Dimitri could further prepare himself for his role.

The only problem: his uncle also was not ready. It was hard, to appear a good ruler after the previous king had been so competent. Even so, it was not that his uncle wasn’t as great as his father, but rather that his uncle wasn’t all that great in the first place. He lacked dedication, understanding, wish to please the people, practically any trait that made a good ruler. Now, he wasn’t a bad person, simply not fit for the role.

Dimitri tried his best to prepare for his role as king, but there was only so much he could do as the already struggling government began to crumble around him. The coming of a new regent who was—theoretically—capable of ruling meant those who oversaw the previous king’s duties needed to return them to the new temporary ruler. Sadly, his uncle had not cared to enforce this. The nobility grew hungry for more power and continued to fight for more. His uncle did the bare minimum. Six years after King Lambert’s death and the entire kingdom was lost to chaos.

In that crumbling kingdom, Dimitri had found his own position crumbling. The nobles were a little too keen on keeping their power and he was a threat to that. It started with bribing the staff. Then, firing his teachers and advisors. As they were all already on the council, it didn’t take much for to keep him from attending. Dimitri had lost all power.

He lost all sense of himself. It wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if he hadn’t lost those close to him. For it was not just his father and step-mother that died, but his friend and knight Glenn. Glenn’s younger brother Felix and his fiance Ingrid were still alive, but their opinions on Faerghus and its current state left them at odds with Dimitri. Sylvain, another friend, was too busy dealing with internal disputes among his family. All that left was his trusty retainer Dedue. Except, Dedue was no longer with him.

Both assassination attempts had been the work of the people of Duscur. That was what the nobility said. Dimitri himself did not know what to believe, but he knew the accusations would not fare well for his friend. He’d been faced with a choice: his people or his prince. Dedue’s choice was obvious, so had it not been for Dimitri’s convincing, Dedue would still be standing at his side. Dimitri knew it was hard for him, but he didn’t want to see his friend jailed or worse. The nobles had, after all, been continuously targeting those close to him.

With no friends or family to rely on, Dimitri only had himself. He was no longer respected or cared for. He no longer had the power to do anything about the kingdom’s situation, his situation. He endured months. He endured years. He no longer had himself. The only thing that kept him going, was the desire that burned deep in his soul. His desire for revenge. Revenge against those who had driven his country to ruin—him to ruin. He was no longer the man he once was.

And so, the legends he had once loved, he found himself hating. Why his country? Why him? Why did everyone other country get a chance at happiness with their weapons of myth? Why was Faerghus the only one with a cursed weapon? Thus, he resented their allies. He resented their enemies. He resented the countries across the sea. He resented the kingdom.

With that resentment, came an epiphany. Why did he need to live like this? Why live a life where he’s shunned, ignored, killed? He wouldn’t sit around waiting to face assassination. He wouldn’t sit around and face the humiliation. If he was going to die, he was going to take the kingdom’s government with him. It would certainly be better that way.

The north was frigid at this time of year. The snow no longer lightly drifted from the clouds, but stormed. The wind blew hard. The air ran cold. The snow covering every surface could hardly be called a thick layer, for it was far beyond that. If one were to try and walk through it, they’d be lucky if the snow only came up to their thighs. The rough, and deep, path of someone wading through the snow would soon be covered by the blizzard. Even if one could survive the harsh conditions, they would hardly be able to find their way back to where they came. There wasn’t even a nearby village to stop in. This was northern Faerghus. Northern Faerghus only had an abundance of icy snow and lack of life.

Not even the rocks and mountains could escape the bitter cold. Even if the common thing cover of ice was absent, stone was a wonderful conduit for frigid temperatures. The north wasn’t an extremely mountainous area, but it had enough for the terrain to look diverse. Hence, travel could be difficult even without the snow. Traveling through the north on foot and all alone was practically a death sentence.

Scaling a mountain in the north was difficult. At the bottom, it was easy to find a path one could carefully take. It was towards the top that the naturally carved paths dwindled and were replaced with rough, irregular shapes. It was not impossible to climb, but was highly discouraged—especially in such weather conditions.

That didn’t stop Dimitri.

Even through his gloved hands, the icy rocks had his fingers frozen numb. So, as he pulled himself up another section that jutted out from the side of the mountain, he focused on his sense of sight, not touch. Without feeling his grip on the rocks, he’d need to focus on his well-trained instincts. He looked at his hand. He’d trust himself. He’d pull himself up. That was the routine he found himself in after what felt like hours of ascending the stony precipice.

After what felt like far too long—and had left his whole body aching with cold—he pulled himself up onto a ledge. This ledge was unlike the others he’d rested on earlier in the day, for this ledge was not a simple ledge. In fact, this ledge was better described as a hole in the mountain, a cave.

He readjusted the scarf around his nose and mouth, hoping it would create some warmth. This had been a dangerous journey, but it was just as dangerous for him not to act. Wiggling his fingers, he hoped warmth would return to them as well. He could even see frozen snow flakes on his eyelashes. He was in desperate need of warmth and while the cave he found himself in was not warm, it at last blocked the wind. Many would call this a fool’s journey, but Dimitri had a purpose. He didn’t even need to succeed. He could fail. At least he’d try. Fail or not, he’d lose his life. He knew that.

At first, he’d thrown himself into learning about their horrid curse. If that was the reason for their misfortune, for their failure, then he’d learn about it. He’d ruin it. Truthfully, he’d only been looking for something to take his anger out on. Something that was already evil, and far from his current grasp was the easy choice. Now, although he still loathed their legendary sword, he knew he could not blame it for the death of his family and the decline of his country. He placed the blame on the nobles. He placed the blame on his uncle. He placed the blame on himself. And that was how he found himself here. The only way to fix the Kingdom of Faerghus now was to destroy it.

He let out a deep breath—trying to regulate his exhausted breathing. His eyes followed the small cloud of his condensed breath. It was a small moment of peace, of relief. He took another moment to close his eyes for the next deep breath that rose through his chest. His eyes opened. His trip wasn’t over yet, in fact it was only starting. His eyes no longer focused at the breaths leaving him, but rather the interior of this place. He’d called it a cave, but it wasn’t nearly as deep or protected from the elements as an actual cave would be. Thus, it was more like a crater in the side of the mountain.

That luckily meant he had no need for the torches he brought. With the mountain blocking the blizzard, there was nothing blocking his vision. Sure, the snow caused there to be less light in the area than there should be in the middle of the day, but he didn’t want to waste the torches when it wasn’t pitch black in the area. He predicted his vision should adjust to the minimal light within the next moment. He waited patiently, knowing there was no point in rushing along this endeavor. Soon enough, he could see the inside relatively clearly.

It truly wasn’t that deep, maybe about four carts deep, and surprisingly smooth. It was hard to tell if this place was carved by hand or the elements. He didn’t think too hard on it, for his focus was elsewhere. Towards the back right of the cave was a large puddle. It could hardly be considered puddle as the surface, and likely the few inches underneath, was clearly frozen over; however, it was not the frozen puddle that captivated his attention. It was the glint of steel peeking through select parts of the ice. He walked closer, taking his time as he began stepping on the icy parts of the floor.

The divot that had caused water to once pool and freeze, was maybe a cart long and a cart wide, but it was shallow for most of that distance. The boots he wore were not meant to traverse ice, but his careful steps were enough to keep himself from slipping too badly. After steadily making his way towards the back of cavern, he finally reached the spot where the once water deepened. It still wasn’t too deep—he would have guessed it was as deep as his thumb was long—but enough that the sword in lying in it was almost fully submerged. He stood above it.

Pulling the dagger from his belt, he knelt on the icy surface. A small part of the sword’s pommel was sticking out from the ice, likely propped up by some rocky surface below. One hand braced itself against the ice, while the other held the dagger. In a swift, yet untrained, motion he swung the tool at the ice. He was no expert with daggers and he certainly wasn’t an expert at excavating objects from ice. He’d just have to do his best.

He could feel his shoulder ache as his breaths quickened again. It was more exhausting than he thought it would be. He was surprised to see a drop of sweat fall onto the ice. He would have thought it cold enough to freeze his sweat before it could even drip off him. Honestly, he was surprised some sweat managed to find its way past the scarves and hats that covered his face and head. He continued working.

He didn’t stop swinging and stabbing the dagger, aside from a brief moment to switch hands, until most of the ice around the sword had been broken. The surface was irregularly cracked and, at some points, crushed. Digging the tip of the knife in a particularly wide crack, he put all his strength into pushing on it, trying to pry the piece up. It didn’t matter how chipped or broken the dagger got, for the prize was worth far more than a little dagger.

Sure enough, the force he put behind the dagger was enough to pop out the first chunk of ice. It wasn’t a very large piece, but the prospect still excited him. His efforts were paying off. He continued to use the dagger to push and pry and pop ice chunk after ice chunk away from the blade below. Eventually—he couldn’t recall exactly when—the dagger was discarded in favor of his hands. As they pulled and dusted away shards of ice, there was absolutely nothing other than freeing the blade on his mind. So, when he found himself heaving with exhaustion and sitting above a fully excavated blade, he felt both accomplished and a little terrified.

The laugh startled him. It was his own laugh, filled with a existential glee as he looked at his future savior and tormentor. He’d done it. He’d really done it. He’d found the cursed sword.

Reaching over his scarf, he used his teeth to grip onto the leather of his glove. The process of climbing and digging had left him with so little strength left in his grip that he couldn’t even take off his gloves normally. Heavy glove now resting between teeth, he could feel the chilly air immediately seize his already cold hand. For the first time since his eyes had adjust to the cave’s light, his attention shifted from the sword. His hand was pale, maybe lacking a little color, but it didn’t look too concerning. He took a deep breath, steeling himself and regaining his composure. He reached his ungloved hand to the now uncovered sword.

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was no stranger to the legends surrounding this sword. Arguably, he was one of the most educated on the topic. It was because of his education, not lack of, that he’d come to this conclusion. He knew Faerghus could not be saved by him, but neither could it be destroyed by him, a prince stripped of his power. The only option was too seek something more powerful than him, something capable of bringing his country to complete ruin, something to help him enact his revenge. The consequences did not matter, for he was willing to sacrifice himself for the country. After all, there was hardly anything left of him anyways. He hardly had a reason to stay sane, a reason to live. He would use the sword and it would use him.

He’d expected far more when he finally made contact with the hilt of the frosty sword. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe a surge of power or a voice screaming in his head or even the rush of evil entering him—but it definitely wasn’t this. No power. Complete and utter silence. No aura of any sort. Nothing.

He picked the sword up and held it out in front of him. Despite it’s presence in ice for what he could only imagine was centuries, the sword looked untouched by the frigid conditions. In fact, the finish on the weapon was so smooth and without a single scratch that it looked like it was newly forged; however even mostly newly forged weapons contained blemishes from the process. The sword itself was simple, standard. It was your typical longsword with a dark leather-wrapped grip. Simple, but well-constructed. The pommel and cross-guard, however, were intricately carved and engraved. He could not tell what had been engraved on the blade, for that section of the cross-guard was the only part of the sword that showed any age. It was so worn he could only pick out a few letters: S and G. He guessed whatever was written was a name, either than of the sword itself or an owner long passed.

Retrieving his dagger, he dug it in the ice to help himself stand. Standing up was harder than sitting down and one of his hands was occupied the legendary sword. He slipped, but thankfully caught his balance before he could fall. He stashed the sword and dagger both in his belt and began his slow trip back to the less icy section of the cavern. Truly, he should have been shocked to find the sword. It was, after all, a mythical sword from folklore that started centuries upon centuries ago.

It would have made far more sense for this sword not to exist, to simply be part of a cautionary tale parents told their children to make sure they followed orders and grew up well. He must have been too thrilled by its discover to even process that by all odds, he shouldn’t have found it. He hadn’t even known exactly where to search for it in the north. He probably should have paid more attention to that fact.

Outside of this small divot in a very large mountain, it was still snowing. It had gotten worse. It was more of a blizzard now. His best bet was to stay in the cave and wait the storm out. He brought plenty of supplies for a trip to the north, but there was only so much he could carry with him through such weather conditions.

As he traveled, he’d carefully stashed some of the supplies he’d brought with him. This meant that while his load was light and easier to handle while scaling a mountain, he didn’t have enough supplies to survive up here for long. Waiting a few hours for the blizzard to calm down even a little was alright. Waiting more than a day or two would be dangerous. He had enough food and water wasn’t a concern. What did worry him was his lack of supplies to keep warm. He had the basics with him, but humans weren’t meant to withstand these harsh conditions for so long. This place at least protected him from the wind, but it didn’t provide enough snow to shelter in and keep him warm. He’d burrow into the snow if only he’d gotten the chance.

There was no point in worrying about it now seeing as the blizzard could end quickly. He found the least drafty spot of the cave and sat down, back resting against the stone wall. He’d already moved the sword from his hip to his lap. He’d put his glove back on and pulled his scarf up tightly over his nose—he wanted to avoid any frostbitten appendages. His head thumped against the wall. His eyes drifted closed.

For a sword reputed to be quite talkative, he was surprised at how quiet it was being. Never did it cross his mind that the sword may not actually be cursed. Instead, he thought maybe it didn’t actually speak. Maybe it compelled their wielder in a way that made it feel like someone was speaking. Maybe it was taking time to observe him before speaking. Maybe it was simply asleep. He had no way of knowing the sleep cycle of cursed swords. He decided to enjoy what he assumed were his last moments of peace by resting.

He didn’t realize that he’d fallen asleep until he’d woken up. He blinked a few times, recollecting himself. The blizzard had calmed and it was still fairly bright outside. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. That was good. His condition, however, was not. Sleeping meant one’s body temperature would drop and when it had already been so low before sleep that wasn’t good. He couldn’t tell if he was actually shaking from the cold or if he simply felt like he was shaking. Many of his limbs felt numb—that could have also been from the less than ideal position he slept in—but he tried to urge himself to stand anyways. He still had some daylight left, but it’d be smart to spend that time descending the mountain. He’d be much better off if he could spend the night on the ground.

He jumped in place, wiggling his fingers and toes, hoping his blood would begin to circulate better. It was important to get down the mountain quickly, but he wouldn’t be able to do so if his body wasn’t cooperating. No matter what he did, he knew he’d lack his usual strength as well as his ability to fully feel his body parts. He’d just need to make sure he was careful.

Once he was sure he was warmed and strong enough to descend the mountain, he threw the bags he’d long since discarded on his back. After strapping himself to them, he tucked the sword back into his belt, fastening it in a way he hoped wouldn’t fall or get in his way. He hadn’t thought about the sword’s potential lack of scabbard and now that he was faced with that challenge, he wasn’t all that sure about what to do. He decided to figure something out once he wasn’t so high in the air. Moving around enough just to check that everything was secured on him, he picked up the tools for climbing he’d discarded after first entering the cavern. He hoped the trip down wouldn’t be as difficult.

Getting down wasn’t as tiring for his body, but it felt far more difficult to keep himself from losing his balance. Maybe it was because he lacked the energy from earlier, or maybe it was simply harder this way. He didn’t scale enough mountains to know why this was more difficult.

There were only a few close calls, where he slipped or lost his grip, but nothing worse than that. Each time he felt himself mess up, his heart lurched. Each moment was a reminder of just how close to death he was. A small break in the rock. A small misjudgment in his step. A failure of his grip. Each small mistake could mean the end of him and the end of him right now would do no good to Faerghus. Each painful wretch of his heart was responded with a few deep breaths and whispers of encouragement. He needed to remind himself just what was at stake.

Once he’d made it to the spot of the mountain where he could steadily walk and slide his way down, he felt relieved. It would be much easier to get down the mountain now. He didn’t need to worry about the death he faced from a simple mess up. Still, it took some time and caution to navigate his way down the rest of the mountain without injury.

By the time his feet hit solid ground—rather he hit waist deep snow—the sun was well past its highest point in the sky. He had time before dark, but not too much time. Not far from here was where he’d stashed his first bag of supplies. Unfortunately, the blizzard had almost completely covered the path he’d made earlier in the day. Now, he only had to hope he remembered where he came from. Wading through the snow took a long time. It was slow and it was cold. The blizzard had stopped, but the wind was still wild and whisking up landed snow.

When he was about chest deep in snow, he found a tiny bit of rock peeking out from the snow. He couldn’t see the rest of the rock, so he couldn’t be entirely sure it was the one he’d left his stuff behind. Even so, it was the only rock he’d been able to see. He did his best to push the heavy snow aside, muscles strained from all their efforts today. It took much longer than expected, but his digging finally revealed the bag he’d hoped was there.

With how long it took to move through the snow, he decided it might be best to set up camp here for the night. It would take some time to clear out a spot large enough for him to take shelter in the snow and with his digging for the bag, he’d already made a start at that shelter. He spent some more time pushing snow so that he could comfortably sit down.

His new home was dripping in luxury that was comfort. In a place as desolate as this, one could hardly wish for comfort. In fact, the acquisition of this spot was fine luck. He may as well consider the ground beneath him his castle and the towering walls of snow surrounding him his fortification.

Rubbing his hands together, ineffectually hoping for more warms, he thanked his innate thirst for knowledge. Years spent hunched in over a book in the royal library with nothing but a single candle to light the pages had paid off. That research, as well as his own curiosity about Dedue’s home, left him with plenty of survival knowledge for such blizzard-prone areas. Of course, he hadn’t anticipated the difficult of the climb, or nearly frozen feet and toes, but he supposed it was only natural. No matter how much research he’d done, Dimitri was still a beginner when it came to actually enacting his skills. As long as he didn’t lose a limb, he would consider this frosty adventure a success.

He spent the rest of his time preparing for nightfall. His digging had loosened the snow surrounding his little dirt patch of solace. He didn’t want to be crushed by his snowy citadel in the middle of the night. He worked like a masoner with their stone. It was essential to build strong walls of a fortress that would never fall. However, he was no professional and his hands were still mostly frozen. He did his best, but couldn’t shake the slight uncertainty he felt about the strength of his barricades. It would have to do.

With appropriate shelter secured, the next step was sustenance—in typical survival situations the order was probably reversed but, weather that could kill meant shelter was of the highest priority. Rations were pulled from the bag he’d dug up earlier. Such food was disappointing no matter what, but the stiffness of it as it sat between his grinding teeth was unmatched. Even rations during war—not that he’d really ever been in a war—were better than these. The food was just as frozen as the rest of him. He could hardly eat it like this, but it wasn’t like time would make it any better. He used his body heat as best he could, not foolishly hoping for warm rations and instead hoping he could at least bite into them.

Adequate shelter? Check. Edible sustenance? Mostly check. Evil sword that would drive him mad? Check. That only left sleep. So, after gnawing his way through food—it would have been easier to eat a large chunk of ice—and organizing his new temporary home, he decided he was best off taking a rest. He was confident a good night’s rest would evade him, the conditions were less than ideal for one, so he should try to sleep as much as possible.

Opening his eyes a very unrestful night, he decided he may as well wake up. It felt like any time he finally drifted off he was immediately woken. He knew he slept longer than he thought, but there was no denying the heaviness in his eyes as he pushed himself to a sitting position.

He’d had the foresight to tuck some rations inside a few layers of his clothing before sleeping, so he didn’t need to expend any extra energy waiting for his breakfast to thaw. Munching on the still too cold food, he started packing whatever he’d taken out of his bags yesterday. There wasn’t a lot to do, but he still needed to prepare and multitasking let him not focus on the taste and temperature of his breakfast.

Before long, he was on his feet, bags on his back and sword at his hip. It would take a few days to escape the wintry part of the north and he wanted out as soon as possible. His physical state would only get worse the more time he spent here. As he plodded through the snow—it stretched even higher after snowing through the night—he was glad the snowstorm had passed. The current amount of snow was already difficult enough to move through and he much preferred being able to see in front of him as opposed to seeing almost nothing.

A few times he had to adjust the sword at his hip, unused to the weapon. He’d learned to fight with swords, proficiency training with all arms was required as a royal of Faerghus, but it was not his preferred weapon. Maybe it was due to his position as a commander, but his preference in battle would be wielding a spear on horseback. If he couldn’t have a horse—he didn’t know why he wouldn’t—then he’d simply wield his spear in the infantry.

He knew how to use a sword, but wasn’t experienced in using one—albeit his experience using other weapons was disputable. If the cursed sword of legend had actually been a cursed spear, all his dreams would have come true. Alas, that was sadly not the case. Still, it was said the sword lent out its own strength and skills. He needn’t be concerned. Although, that did make him a little concerned about the lack of chatter from the sword at his side. Surely he hadn’t just found a regular sword someone forgot in a random mountain cave?

As if to responding to his inner dialogue, Dimitri felt the sword at his side shift. Well, he didn’t know if it actually shifted or if he was out of his mind. He chose to believe the sword moved; however, a few minutes passed with no other reaction from the sword. Maybe he really was losing his mind? While contemplating his own mental stability, he reached a section of snow not packed as high. It was now about waist level and, while still difficult to traverse, he felt relieved the strain on his body was no longer quite as bad. He glanced at the pommel of the sword, now visible above the snow.

“You put in quite the effort retrieving me.”

Dimitri stalled, eyes darting to the sword. Was that it? Was that the voice of the sword? It didn’t sound like it came from the sword, but it also didn’t sound like it talked into his mind like he’d expected. The voice almost felt a little distant, like someone following him had spoken. Casually he stretched—he wasn’t sure why he thought it would being caught would be embarrassing—twisting his body back and forth so he could glance behind him. Nothing. He hadn’t expected there to be someone, or something, back there but couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to check.

The sword hadn’t spoken since—could it even be considered speaking? He didn’t think it could hear his thoughts. He’d need to respond out loud. Dimitri cleared his throat. He didn’t even know what to say.

“Yes.” Not the best response—honestly hardly a response—but it would have to do.

Silence prevailed.

“I suppose it was all for my help?”

Dimitri nodded. Then he realized the sword actually might be able to see him.

“Yes.”

“Not very talkative?”

“No, I—I just don’t know—” What the hell should he say?

The sword didn’t respond with words, but a small hum that sounded a little too amused. It didn’t help that the voice wasn’t what he anticipated. He had expected the voice to be a little deeper, a little cunning, more evil. What did an evil voice even sound like? Instead, the sword’s voice was young, kind. It was surprisingly soothing.

“You said you needed my help?”

“Yes,” Dimitri continued this time, “I wish to use you to take revenge.”

A thoughtful hum left the sword this time. “Well, I’m not sure how much I can help you with you revenge, but I’ll do my best. I guess no matter what, I can be your supportive companion.”

Dimitri almost flinched. The tales always made it sound like this sword was extremely talkative and persuasive using flattery to get what it wanted, but that wasn’t the case so far. It had been rather passive in their conversation and fully content with the bits of silence. After his thorough research, Dimitri had always theorized that the sword was smart and cunning enough to change its attitude. A sword that could adapt its personality to fit that of its current victim was far scarier than a sword who only ever was loud and demanding. Acting however its wielder wanted, or needed, would wield better results for the sword. Dimitri didn’t take well to arrogance, so the sword acting almost modest about its own skills was probably a calculation. Its words had convinced him.

He knew he was not only lonely, but that he felt alone. He had no one at his side to support him because either people disliked him or they could not spare the time to assist him. Other than revenge, what he probably desired most was companionship. The sword knew that. The sword would use that. He knew he would fall for it.

“That’s reassuring.”

Once again, the two went silent. Earlier, the silence had been comfortable but now that he knew the sword was there, that it was listening, it made the silence awkward. That didn’t mean he knew what to say. So, other than the howling wind and occasional grunt, it was silent. It wasn’t until he settled down for a break in the afternoon that they spoke again.

“So what’s your name?”

The snow was now just above knee height, but he could feel how exhausted his body was. He was digging through his coats for another piece of now unfrozen rations when the word spoke to him. Unlike earlier, where the voice appeared to come from behind him,it now came from someplace off to his side. He hadn’t quite wrapped his heard around the reasoning behind the somewhat voice. Honestly, it didn’t even sound as disembodied as it should have. It made no sense. He took a moment to respond, swallowing the bite of food he’d taken.

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the crown prince of Faerghus.” His crown prince status was questionable at the moment, but the sword wouldn’t care.

“Wow,” the sword remarked, “such an impressive person picked me up. I suppose I should speak more respectfully.”

Dimitri, out of habit, shook his head. “No need, I do not care for formalities, especially from such a legendary sword.”

“Legendary, huh?” Was all the sword said.

Dimitri ate his snack, feeling a little less awkward with the silence. He’d admit the sword was very easy to talk to. If not for the lack of a body next to him, he would have thought it a casual conversation between comrades. Unfortunately, he was well aware this was part of the sword’s plan, part of its act. Then again, it didn’t matter if he knew that. He’d already accepted the death this path of revenge would bring to him.

“Well, prince Dimitri, you may call me Ashe.”

He was surprised. Every great sword had a name, yet for some reason he hadn’t expected this one to. He also hadn’t expected it to have such a human name. Maybe that was a part of its game or maybe it truly had that name. He had no way of knowing. Having a name certainly made things easier when talking with the sword, but he feared what the sense of familiarity would do.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ashe.”

There was another chuckle-like hum. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

And so, Dimitri set out once again. This time, they didn’t remain completely silent. Occasionally the sword would comment on their surroundings—there wasn’t much to see other than snow which meant that was usually his commentary—and Dimitri would respond. There were no discussions of their relationship or how Dimitri would gain power. There were no discussions of persuasion or crime. They hardly even made small talk. They were likely feeling one another out, seeing what was and wasn’t acceptable. How they’d determine that through minimal conversation was yet to be seen.

When Dimitri settled down for the night again, this time with shorter towers on his fortress, the two took the time to converse longer. He’d just finished his dinner and was getting ready to lay down. Even if he wouldn’t sleep yet, he needed to get some rest.

“So,” the sword’s voice was at his side once again but closer than before, “what exactly does revenge mean?”

“I want to get back at those who wronged me.”

It sounded like the sword sighed. “My apologies, it seems I did not phrase my question well. I know what revenge means, I just want to know what it means to you.”

The sword wanted to know what it would have to uphold. Maybe to also wanted to know how cruel it would be. No matter how nice this Ashe sounded, it was still the Faerghus’ legendary cursed sword. Dimitri laid down, eyes on the darkening sky above. This time, he sighed.

“Faerghus, this kingdom, my kingdom, is in ruin. My uncle and the nobles have run it to the ground and left me with no power to fix it. Even if I could ascend the throne, I could hardly change all the bad they’ve done in my lifetime. I imagine even my descendants descendants would have a rough time completing it. I decided the only way to change things the fasted would be to take revenge—to kill—not only those in charge, but the country itself.”

He didn’t want to go too much in detail. The sword probably didn’t need details to justify its desires so he didn’t think it would really matter. He also didn’t feel like fully sharing his woes with a sword, especially not this sword. The sword simply hummed. Dimitri was unsure if it was processing his words or if it was waiting for him to continue.

“That’s a tough decision to make. I can’t tell you if its right or wrong. Frankly, I’m surprised to hear this is still the Kingdom of Faerghus. I’m basically an outsider with no understanding of your current kingdom. I truly don’t know what’s best. I just advise you to make sure this is the right path. Don’t just think about you, but think about he people of Faerghus.”

“I have.” Dimitri responded immediately. “If I do nothing they’ll suffer. If I do something they’ll suffer. Revenge or not, Faerghus and its citizens will bleed.”

It was the sad truth of his kingdom. The legends and tales always spoke of valiant triumphs and instrumental change. That wasn’t reality. In reality, change could not be brought about so quickly or easily. To change something, it must first be destroyed and to destroy it meant to cause pain. He wished he wouldn’t have to hurt the poor citizens already injured by poor governance, but he felt he had no choice. Maybe this pain—pain caused through good intention—would be easier to digest.

“Alright.” He didn’t know what it was in the sword’s voice, but the sword did not sound entirely pleased.

That was the end of their conversation. The sword asked no more and Dimitri said no more. This was no fairy tale and there was no happy ending. He drifted off to sleep.

When dawn broke the next morning, he was already prepared to set out. His body was sore from many days of exhausting work, but he determined. He had the sword. Everything would changing. Not long after he’d begun his journey for the day, he heard the sword’s voice from behind him.

“What’s the Kingdom of Faerghus like now? Aside from all the ruin of course.”

Dimitri took a moment to contemplate the question. “I suppose it was prospering under the previous king’s rule.”

“Was that your grandfather?”

“No, my father.”

“Oh.”

“He passed away a few years ago. My uncle has been the regent since. No one felt I was ready to assume my position as monarch.”

“Why didn’t they?”

Dimitri shrugged. “My youth maybe? A thirst for political power? Lack of self-confidence? Genuine dislike for me?”

The list of all the possibilities went on and on. Sure, they’d had to give reasons as to why Rufus should be the acting king, but he hadn’t paid too much attention to them. At the time, everything they explained sounded legitimate. He had no reason to question it and no reason to store the information for later. Even so, he now doubted what they said back then to be the whole truth.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Dimitri nodded. The sword had responded well to the earlier times he’d forgotten to verbally communicate so he assumed the sword must have some way of seeing him.

“Your father was a good king, though?”

“Yes.” Dimitri’s sigh was filled with nostalgia. “I mean, he wasn’t perfect—”

“Few people are.”

He almost smiled. “That’s very true. He tried his best to make decisions that benefited both the nobles and common folk. He couldn’t always do what was best for both, but he at least tried.”

“You really cared for him, didn’t you?”

“He was a great father.”

Their discussion sent shivers up his spine. The legends, the warnings, weren’t just for show. He swore Ashe’s voice sounded genuinely empathetic. He had to keep reminding himself that he was dealing with the cursed sword. He knew he’d eventually fall prey to the hunter, but that couldn’t happen just yet. He needed to be in control for just a little longer.

He didn’t know how long the silence went on before the sword broke it. “I didn’t mean to bring up such hard topics before you slept, my apologies.”

“It’s alright.” He didn’t know if it really was alright, but what else could he say?

“Why don’t you tell me some fun memories from your childhood? Maybe something about your father.”

The sword’s voice was kind, caring. It was genuinely apologetic and curious. Dimitri felt his heart twist with the ache of loss. He hadn’t the chance to discuss feelings over his father’s death with anyone. He also rarely got the chance to reminisce about simpler times. It was therapeutic, recalling stories for the sword who patiently listened with small hums to encourage his continuance. His body still ached with fatigue and grief, eyes stinging from the threat of tears, but he felt calm. He would even say he felt relaxed. Even so, he didn’t have time to realize his foolish relaxation in an unknown harsh place while all alone, for he was soon drifting off to sleep.

The next day began largely how the previous one had. The only difference this time was he felt more rested. Another, surprising difference, was how the sword greeted him as he ate his breakfast. Also surprising was the fact that they continued conversing well after he’d begun his journey for the day.

“So,” they’d been casually discussing Faerghus’ state, “you said the sword, well, me I suppose, is legendary?”

There was curiosity in it’s tone and Dimitri was taken aback. He hadn’t considered the sword wouldn’t know of its own legend. Then again, how could one trapped in a distant mountain cave know its infamy?

“There’s a whole tale surrounding The Cursed Sword of Faerghus.”

“What’s the tale about?”

He pursed his lips. Was it smart? To tell the sword just how aware of your tactics you were? To tell it that everyone has been warned about it but hey here I am anyways. Despite that, he couldn’t exactly avoid the question either. He’d need to choose his words carefully.

“It’s been changed a little over the years,” that wasn’t a lie, “and its so well know that mothers recite it for their children.”

“Why? Is there some moral about it?”

“Yes, I suppose their is,” less of a moral and more of an alert.

“What is it?”

He should have guessed the sword would be this curious. “Um, I suppose its about greed and controlling your emotions? And trust and strength and all that…”

It wasn’t really a lie, was it? And even if it was, why did that matter? The sword didn’t appear to have any lie-detecting powers. What bad would telling a lie to a supposed evil sword be?

“Interesting.” The sword was contemplating something. “Am I, well, the sword I guess, the main character in this tale?”

“Not really? I mean you have a very important role and all but I wouldn’t say you’re the main character. Then again, you aren’t exactly a side character. I can’t really think of the word I’m looking for.” The word was villain.

“I always thought it would be cool to be the character in a story one day. Who would have thought I’d get to see that day myself.” Dimitri waded through snow in silence for a while. “So who is the main character, then? It could be anyone, I suppose…”

“It’s a,” what to say, “young knight.”

“A young knight?” The sword sounded a tad excited. “What was his name?”

“Oh, I don’t know that. It doesn’t say.”

A pause.

“It doesn’t say?” Dimitri shook his head. “How disappointing.”

Dimitri had never thought too much about the knight’s information. It didn’t really matter in the story considering the real focus was the sword’s treachery. If anything, the knight lacking background only made it scarier and more relatable. On the other hand, he could see why someone who wasn’t familiar with the story would be disappointed to hear the so-called main character lack a name.

“Well, you still haven’t told me what the young knight and I do in the legend.”

It seemed he couldn’t escape it. He sighed.

“I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Really? Well, I like all kinds of stories. Try me.”

And so he did. He remembered the story by heart—most citizens of Faerghus did—although he left out the two paragraphs their kingdom no longer told. It’d be best to avoid the details of the sword’s cunning methods. When he finished the tale, he waited for the sword’s response. It took a little longer than he expected.

“Huh. That’s fascinating.”

A pause.

“Do you remember that knight from the story?” Dimitri wanted to switch topics as quickly as possible, but had nothing better to say.

“I believe so. That was a long time ago, but its not like I’ve had anything going on since. I guess it faded a little with time.”

“Did anyone else wield you before that?” He should really change the topic.

“Yes, although not many. I believe there were two others? Yes, that sounds about right.”

“What were the other two like?” His brain had supposedly decided continuous questions would keep the sword from asking him more.

“The first one was very surprised to find out I spoke—honestly I was too—but I think it freaked him out a little too much. Not long after we finally came to terms with my situation did he leave me behind for a different weapon.”

“And the second?”

“He was also scared by my voice, but tried not to think about it too hard. We got along fine, but he left me in a cave in some forest one night. I don’t know why, but he shouted goodbye as he left so I didn’t really hate him for it.”

“And the knight from the story?”

“Ah yes, him. I was with him longer than the first man, but shorter than the second. He wasn’t shocked like the others when I spoke to him and I’m not sure if rumors about me already existed then or if he was just too caught up in his greed for power to care. He was thrilled to find me, thought I must be super special because of my location and ability to speak. After the incident your story covers, he was upset and brought me to the mountain you found me on.”

“What happened then? The legend doesn’t really talk about it.”

“Well, he threw me into the little cave. By the way, what is with your people and putting swords into caves? That’s not going to preserve a sword any better or anything.”

“I really don’t know.” How could one respond to that?

“Anyways, I was abandoned in that cave just like before.”

“And the knight?”

“I can’t be too sure what happened either, after all, swords can’t exactly walk on their own. I don’t know, but I believe he was driven so mad by the event that he chose to wander the cold north by himself.”

“Oh.” It was clear what the sword meant, and in all honesty he had expected such an answer.

He didn’t dare make any other comment. Their discussion was interesting, illuminating, but he still didn’t know what all was true or tainted by the sword’s bias. He also had no wish to anger the sword. Simple acceptance of these facts was the best way to go.

“Now that I think about it, all of these people came across me in the span of a couple decades. I haven’t met someone since the knight. I suppose the story’s warning is to thank for that.”

Silence. It was the unspoken question. The question he dreaded being asked. The question he never wanted to answer. Just why did you seek to find me?

It wasn’t until that night that the two of them spoke again. The tension between them hadn’t been thick or murky, but it was just enough for the two strangers to stave off conversation. Now that they were no longer moving and thus were without distractions, the sword had decided to speak up again.

“So,” Dimitri was currently chewing on his dinner, “why are you out here all alone? I mean its dangerous for anyone to be alone out here, but you’re also royalty. No matter how silly your nobility run government is, surely you have knights or retainers who could have come with you?”

Truthfully, he was glad the question wasn’t quite what he expected. This was much easier to answer than a question asking why he’d found a sword rumored to drive you mad. It was still a tough topic for him, but the tense silence was too stifling.

“I had retainers. One was killed on the night of the attack that gravely injured my father. I had also been targeted by the attempt. He saved my life that day, albeit at the cost of his own.” He’d since caught the sword up on the story behind Faerghus’ decline. “The other retainer I sent away.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Have you heard of Duscur?” Dimitri’s head was turned in the direction he heard the voice coming from, even if there was nothing to look at.

“I haven’t.”

“It was once a country of its own, found in the north of Faerghus here. Now, it is just used to refer to the people who live in that region. Years back, the kingdom made contact with them and they became a part of Faerghus. It didn’t go over very well, so after the past couple of assassination attempts, everyone was keen to believe the people of Duscur were behind it.”

“And your other retainer?”

“You see, he was born in Duscur and came to be my retainer when we were both young. I couldn’t make him choose between his people and his job.”

“That’s quite unfortunate. I’m truly sorry for your losses.”

“Thanks. In the chaos of everything, I haven’t been able to stay close to my other friends. The uncertainty of my position and political power certainly hasn’t helped either.”

It wouldn’t fix anything, but talking these things out with Ashe made him feel a little better. The sword was a wonderful listener who wasn’t too eager to encourage or condemn him. It felt like having a friend who would support you without letting you deviate from your path. It was a comfort, having such a friend. He wished he and Ashe could really be friends.

“I can’t understand your exact situation, but I’ve also lost people important to me. I know how hard it can be. You’re and extremely strong person, Dimitri. I just hope you know you needn’t be strong all the time.”

He offered a tired smile. Whether or not Ashe could truly see him, he knew the sword would sense his intentions. The sword was really too good at this. He felt himself yawn.

“Why don’t you get some sleep? We’ll probably reach the end of the snowy region tomorrow.”

Dimitri nodded. Laying down, he didn’t bother to look at the stars or examine his surroundings. Before drifting closed, he felt his eyes linger on the spot he’d laid the sword down. He didn’t need to be so strong or concerned. He had this sword at his side. Ashe would look out for him.

Waking the next morning, he felt far worse than any other morning. The comfort he’d received the night before was too comforting. All the adrenaline and drive pumping through his body had vanished, leaving him feeling completely sore and exhausted no matter how well he’d slept that night. Who knew relief would cause more pain? Sadly, he still had a long way to walk before he could be out of the cold frozen environment.

In the past two days, less snow had meant warmer temperatures. Warmer temperatures still meant extremely cold, it was simply less extremely cold. The rest of Faerghus wasn’t particularly warm, especially at this time of year, but anything was better than this. If he was good at anything, it was pushing himself. He’d do what he did best.

“You told me about your childhood before, but I’m curious exactly what it was like being a prince.” The sword’s voice was behind him as he walked like usual, with the snow luckily only reaching the middle of his calves. “I’m obviously not royalty and I have limited knowledge on the life of young nobles, so I honestly have no idea what it all entails.”

He was sure the sword had no need for such information, so this was likely just an attempt to get closer with Dimitri. The more he confided in the sword, the more he trusted the sword. The more the sword knew about him, the more the sword could manipulate him.

“There’s nothing too special about it. It’s not horribly different from the lives of other noble children.”

“Really? Or are you just saying that because of your own warped perspective of reality?” Ashe’s voice trailed off at the end, like he’d fallen far behind him in mere moments.

“Well that’s certainly a way to put it.” There was no response, but he tried not to feel concerned. “I guess others would probably think they’re very different.”

He chuckled, trying to shake off the discomfort he suddenly felt. He shifted the sword on his belt, making sure it was tied tightly. He gulped. This silence was neither tense nor awkward. It was pure and utter silence. That was what made it unsettling. He hoped it would disappear.

“As far as what it was like…it was difficult. I still had time to play and relax—my father made sure of that—but most of my days were filled with studying. Etiquette, History, politics, its necessary for all noble children to receive education on such important topics early on but its really stressed when you’re royalty. Upon birth, a prince is immediately as just that, a prince. He is a prince first and then a child. Whether intentionally or not, the nobility, and even the commoners, hold you to a high standard.

I guess, even when I did take a break and play, that fact never left me. No matter how hard I tried, there was always that barrier of status to keep my friends—actually I’m not entirely sure I can call them that anymore…but the point is they could never let loose with me. I was a child but I was a prince. Maybe that’s the true reason why I had to search for you alone. Maybe saying it was because I chose this path was all just a lie to make me feel better.”

He didn’t feel good. Having someone there to comfort you and confide in meant it was much harder when you lost them. After discovering that as a young child, maybe he had instinctually always kept himself from getting too close to people. It hurt less if you never let them get close in the first place. It would also hurt them less if he wasn’t much more than their prince. He was beginning to realize just how much the sword had made him depend on it so far. He hadn’t expected himself to fall this quickly.

“That’s unfortunate.” the sword’s voice still felt further away and quieter than normal, but he was relieved it was back. “I myself find relationships like that difficult, but that’s just because of who I am I guess. Maybe the only reason I’m able to talk to you so calmly and freely like this is because I’m not even human. I guess social statuses mean a lot less when your only physical body is an inanimate sword.”

The tone used was a classic case of trying to sound happy when truly not feeling that well. Dimitri didn’t know what it was that made Ashe sound so sad, so conflicted. It could have been either or their words or something else entirely. He didn’t know how this played into the sword’s plans. Was it trying to seem human? That it had feelings and emotions and thoughts of its own? He had no idea.

“And I suppose I thank whatever part of you that is. I’m not sure what I’d do if you weren’t by my side now.” He scared himself.

He hadn’t realized he’d even opened his mouth. Suddenly, he had an epiphany. He always told himself he knew his eventual fate. He always told himself he accepted his eventual fate. What he realized was he hadn’t truly accepted it. He knew he’d eventually fall to sword-induced madness. There was no denying it. But, apparently, he wanted to maintain control of that situation. Completely losing himself was truly terrifying. He hadn’t accepted that. He’d accepted the idealized version of his fate where he was aware that he was losing himself. A fate where even if he was crazy, he knew that what he was doing was crazy. Now, he didn’t think he’d have such a luxury.

It took some time before he heard the sword’s voice again. This time, it was at its usual distance and volume behind him. There was no tone in particular it was using. It was simply speaking with him now.

“Did you need to train with a sword as part of your princely duties?”

The snow wasn’t very high now, and his fingers and toes no longer felt like they’d fall off any minute. He’d moved the scarf that once covered the lower half of his face so that it was loosely dangling around his neck.

“Yes, I needed to train with all sorts of weapons.”

“What other kinds?”

“Spears, bows, hand-to-hand combat—”

“That’s super cool! Which is your favorite?”

Saying swords was probably the best answer. “Spears.”

He heard what sounded like a whistle. “That sounds cool. Quite fitting actually.”

“I would have thought the sword would have preferred I say swordplay.”

“Well,” the sword sounded a little dumbfounded, “there’s nothing wrong with liking other weapons or being proficient in many. Doesn’t having such variety of skills make you a better warrior?”

Dimitri couldn’t help the small giggle that left him. “You’re not wrong. Who knew the legendary all-powerful sword was so open minded?”

“I wouldn’t say all-powerful sword,” if a sword could sound flustered, that’s what Dimitri would have labeled Ashe’s tone as.

“Why not? Would you prefer I call you an unbeatable sword? A sword that can fight thousands? The smart invulnerable blade?” He didn’t know where this desire to tease came from.

“No no no! None of those please!” Dimitri couldn’t see the smile on his own face. “I just mean that your legend may have exaggerated a little.”

“So its the almighty yet humble sword?”

“No! Please stop!” Despite his words, Ashe didn’t seem all that upset at their banter.

Dimitri let out the heartiest laugh he’d had in a while. It might have even been years.

“I’m not being humble. I’m seriously not that powerful.”

Dimitri was not going to tease anymore, but he was still smiling. “Then what kind of powers do you really have?”

“Um…” Ashe sounded unsure, “none?”

“None?” The disbelief in his voice was clear.

“I mean, I can’t say none.”

“Then, what are these skills?”

“I did say I could always watch your back.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Ashe paused. “I was a companion for the knight from your legend, yes?”

Dimitri nodded.

“He was very skilled on his own and mostly lacked experience. I haven’t been on too many battlefields—”

“Even though you’re a sword?” Dimitri jested.

Ashe didn’t respond. He stayed completely quiet. Dimitri’s smile began to fade, both concerned and confused, but before he could say something, the sword finally responded.

“Yes, even though I’m a sword, I haven’t been on too many battlefields.” Ashe sounded a little weird, but Dimitri couldn’t place his finger on what it was. “Despite that, I had more experience than him. I gave him advice, a few strategies, and mostly looked out for him on the battlefield.”

“So you were like another set of eyes for him?”

“Yes, I’d let him know about incoming attacks or enemies or if I saw an opportunity he could take. Honestly, I think your legend talking about my skills came from his own abilities. He was very good. He just needed a little guidance and encouragement like—”

“Like me?”

Dimitri could sense what Ashe was going to say before realizing it may not be the right thing to say. He wasn’t arrogant and, in fact, lacked more self-confidence in these areas than most realized.

“I mean, sure! Don’t we all need guidance? But you’re already much better than he is! You say you want revenge and all but you’re pretty level headed.” Ashe was doing his best not to offend Dimitri.

“No, it’s alright. You don’t need to say those things to make me feel better.”

“But its true! You’re great! I haven’t been with you long or see you do much but your drive and strength just walking through such harsh conditions is really testament to it!”

Dimitri offered a small smile. “Not you too.”

“What? What did I-”

“I guess the social class thing really does apply to swords?” Ashe remained silent. “A prince must be perfect, that’s what everyone thinks, and because they think that, they seem to assume I’m perfect. I’m honestly not perfect. I’ve worked long and hard since I could first walk. I’m not trying to say I’m not capable or powerful, but I always know I can improve. I’ll gladly welcome your guidance.”

“I’ll gladly give you whatever guidance I can.”

Dimitri smiled and they continued talking for some time. Their topics of discussion varied from old stories to the new title of the legendary sword of Faerghus. Eventually, he no longer heard snow crunch between his feet and the winds didn’t feel quite as frigid. The worst of the trip was done.

Not far from there was another spot he’d stashed supplies. He took some time to go through the bag he’d left behind. Ashe was impressed at his preparedness and he explained everything he’d done to make sure he was adequately prepared for the trip. It would be the hardest time in his life. They continued on their journey well into the night. It wasn’t until the sky showed the first signs of darkness showed on the sky that Dimitri settled down for the night.

They had stopped their discussion not long ago. He sat eating his dinner, not thinking about the days ahead like intended. Instead, he stared up at the starry sky. Although he wondered, although his curiosity was eating him up inside, he didn’t ask the sword.

Silence. It was the unspoken question. The question he desperately wanted to ask. The question he desperately wanted an answer to. Just why are you the legendary cursed sword of Faerghus?

Another day had passed and Dimitri was even closer to Fhirdiad, the capital city and location for his revenge. He and Ashe had conversed almost non-stop. He hadn’t expected they’d be capable of holding conversation for so long. How they kept finding new topics or new points for topics they’d already discussed was beyond him.

Being further inland now meant he no longer only had hope to keep him warm. With access to wood—even in all sorts of sizes and shapes—he could make a fire to warm himself. He was thankful all of his limbs and appendages had lasted the trip. The sticks he gathered had been placed on a small patch of dirt he’d carved out. The flint was pulled from his bags and he sat striking it.

“So what even is your plan? You said revenge and all, but just how are you going to get revenge?”

The topic had likely been a little too deep when the sword first asked him, so there had been no discussion of it since. Now that they had spent some time together, it was more comfortable asking him. The sword needed to know these details eventually anyways. It seemed now was the right time.

He struck the flint. “There’s nothing super concrete.”

“So you went on a perilous journey for a dangerous sword without fully knowing what you’d use it for?”

“No, I just—” he paused to blown on the spark that just landed on the shavings of bark. “I thoroughly planned my revenge. I just don’t know if it’ll go as planned.”

“Isn’t that how it always works? No matter how prepared we are, we can never anticipate everything. People are unpredictable.”

Dimitri sat back, watching as the bark slowly burned. “Sometimes you say the most profound things.”

“Well, I’ve had quite the life.” Dimitri hummed. “But seriously, why may your plan not work out?”

Dimitri was resting against the tree he sat in front of. “To start, I have no idea if my uncles and the nobles I wish to target will all be in Fhirdiad. There was supposed to be a counsel meeting in a few days, but I have no way of knowing if plans have changed. Usually the nobles are in the capital for about a week’s time when they have counsel meetings, makes the traveling easier.”

“And you don’t have any allies who could let you know ahead of time?”

Dimitri shook his head. “I’d been in contact with a few people about my plans, but never got confirmation.”

“So you really are alone on this?”

Dimitri nodded, his expression solemn. The sticks he found had caught fire by now, helping to spread warmth through his body. The night was cold—not nearly as bad as it had been further north—so it was comforting.

“Not anymore.” He turned to the direction Ashe’s voice was coming from, a large rock to his left. “I have you.”

He could tell the warmth wasn’t just from the fire or his smile. Ashe had truly become someone very important to him, someone he could rely on. Ashe did not respond immediately, but Dimitri knew the silence wasn’t awkward or sad or even upset. It was a content type of silence.

“It’s an honor to be by your side.” It was almost like he could see Ashe smiling.

Another couple moments of silence passed. It was like the two were relishing in a moment of joy, a moment where they earnestly trusted and cared for one another.

“What happens when we get to Fhirdiad?” Their moment of bliss had no choice but to be broken by their reality.

“I plan to fight my uncle and the nobles who have ruined the country—with your help of course. I plan to create distractions, cause chaos, anything to draw them out of their rooms. From there, well, I suppose I’ll fight them—ideally one-on-one. I know generally where they tend to stay when in the capital so I don’t think it should be too difficult to find and eliminate them like planned.”

Ashe gave a thoughtful hum. “It sounds like you could have planned and prepared more, but I’m sure you know what your doing. You’re the most level-headed person I’ve come across in a while.”

Dimitri laughed. “That’s a little concerning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not exactly level-headed, am I? I was so desperate for revenge I traveled to the ever-frozen northern part of Faerghus and picked up the legendary evil sword that every mother tells their child never to go around. If I’m level-headed after all that, I’m seriously concerned for about your relationships.”

“You have no need to be.” Dimitri looked towards the voice. “There’s no one left from my past.”

Ashe’s voice didn’t sound like he was joking. His tone couldn’t even be described as sad. Sad was too simple a word. Ashe’s statement came out as pure fragility. It was the tone of someone who had once lost everything. He didn’t exactly know why, but Dimitri felt himself shiver. The fire was keeping him far too warm for it to be from the cold.

“You mean your previous wielders?”

“Them too.”

Dimitri was clammed up. This topic—the sword’s past—was one they’d often danced around in their conversations. Ashe didn’t seem comfortable sharing and Dimitri didn’t feel like learning. To hear the story meant to accept that there was more to the legend. There was more to the sword. This was Ashe. His breathing felt uneasy, a little shaky. They’d hit a point in this conversation they never had before. One of them would need to step up and change the topic or delve into the past. It was a stalemate.

“Do you want to know?”

“Do you want to tell me?”

Silence.

“If its you,” a pause for far too long, “I think I do.”

“Then,” Dimitri smiled, softly, sadly, towards Ashe’s voice, “I’ll listen.”

The town of humility. Filled with king and helpful people, travelers always felt themselves welcome. Small, homey, but full of grand ambition. Known for its abundance of fruity harvests and the sugar-sweet pastries that came with it. From the aromatic flower beds in the garden square to the shade brought from the trees arching above, it too was sugar-sweet. A town to relax in. A town to lose yourself in. A town with once cheerful heads propped up high.

The village of diplomacy. Filled with intelligent and strong souls, they could always get things done. Small, courteous, but they’d always get things done. Known for their location to the border, and thus ties to diplomatic inquiry with their neighbors. From the foggy plains to the dim forests, their surroundings were unfit to thrive yet they stood strong. A town that stands for what is right. A town that strikes while the iron is hot. A town with bodies now still in the streets.

The city of endless lights. Filled with hopeful and loyal folk. Large, boisterous, but anxious for what the world would bring. Known for the glimmering street lights and rowdy festivals ever present in its streets. From the crowded roads to neatly lined buildings, it showed all that the region of Gaspard stood for. A city filled with inexhaustible cheer. A city of constant progression. A city bathing in the iniquitous heat of the buildings’ light.

Indistinguishable was the time of day, foiled by the lack of stars or clouds in the lifeless black of the sky. Warm light emitted from the streets like an artificial sun. In some cases, clear town roads let the ray shine far and wide. In others, the blaze could hardly penetrate the thick lining of fog and smoke that encased the village. In a city environment, the glow was ever visible aside from the shadowy shelters beneath hazardous homes. Amidst the orange glow tinting the ground red, bodies and objects were identical. Streets, ever boisterous, and roads ever quiet, each community was home to its usual life.

Trees no longer standing, pastries left baking, and flowers still fragrant, the town of humility was at peace. Once filled with the vibrant colors of life, the flowers lining the roads now boasted a change of color. Once yellow and blue, the petals began the quick transition to shades of red thanks to the ones who once tended them. Some were instead brown thanks to the dirt they laid shriveled upon. Pies, once left on the windowsills to cool to perfection, now fed themselves to the cobblestone below. Trees of fruit laid still, staining the ground below with the sticky liquid of lost life, like the farmers who always relaxed among their branches. A silent, calm town host to many villagers and travelers alike. In considerate unity, all had left behind limb and life for the betterment of their home. A town to relax in ill-boding peace. A town in which to lose all lifely ails. A town where citizen and traveler were propped up side by side for all to see, the fruit of their life-filled labors dripping down the poles on which they now forever sat.

Fog along the landscape that secluded them from all. Spilling from the threes and grass to hover over dirt-paved roads. Fog of nature and smoke of blazing passion, a haze of their own creation and a smog of radiation. Secluded, protected, with no need to face allies or foes. It was their own world, their own little village of fog on the border. And so the villagers sit in their homes, standing strong when faced by their own isolating fog, for there is no reason to worry. Why spare the breath in one’s lungs to chase a ceaseless fog, a feature in their desolation. A once quite place now filled with the ambiance of tearful wishes and gasps for breath from the homes with which they lived.

A glowing brilliance in the sky, not of moon nor sun nor even stars. Like the passion in their hearts and the city lights, the city’s unremitting inferno. The streets crowded like parades of old, city folk pushing to reach the tiresome end first, for not all can finish the festival events without loss, be that of time or breath or life. For the city was alight as usual, and the citizens noisy as ever. The only difference were happy shouts turned to blood-curdling shrieks for the end of such torturous life.

The last thing they had expected was a siege, for their enemies to launch an attack on their less than fortified city. That hadn’t happened. Instead, the impossible had. However, at the time, no one had time to spare for such analytical thoughts. It wasn’t until much later that the treachery behind the attacks was known.

When consumed in small doses, fires were a wonderful experience. Even the large bonfires that occurred at certain festivals was tolerable. It was hot, it was bright, but it brought joy to the citizens. On a much larger scale and lacking the most important thing, control, was when fire turned from comforting and thrilling to horrifying. Warmth once tickling the surface of the skin was now an insufferable heat that threatened singing pain even without direct contact. Light once calm and fulfilling was now a blinding flare with overcast of ash that both stung and scratched the eyes who so dared exist in its vicinity. Worst of all was the pungent odor that accompanied the flames, a mix of burning wood, hair, and flesh.

Was it supposed to be irony? That the city of endless lights was set ablaze by fire? Was it a cruel joke by those who sought its demise? No, such thought had not been put into the attack. This night of horror was brought about because the people who caused it hated Gaspard—hated the land and the people within it. They did not care for such poetic undoing. It was a means to an end. They simply wished to see the region burn and the leftover dust get blown away in the wind.

His lungs were likely as ashen as the hair on his head as he ran through the halls of their home. In truth, he imagined every part of him was likely coated in a layer of dull and dusty soot. He’d been running for a while, so it was natural for his breathing to be heavier, but the prickling in his lungs with each inhale and exhale was not normal. A rough cough shook his entire body, the prickling sensation turned to pure pain. Such a cough seemed to aggravate every uncomfortable feeling in his body. His tired limbs grew sorer and his eyes more sensitive to the airborne particles of burnt memories. A cough sounded from behind. His fingers tightened around the hand in his grasp.

Ignoring the irritation in his eyes, he looked around. There was no forward, just a left and a right. He’d lived here for years, for a good chunk of his childhood, but the smoke above had infected his brain. Memories were as foggy as his general awareness. If he stood there long enough, he could have come to the right conclusion but there was not time. He pulled the hand he held onto left, causing the body attached to stumble. The more he ran, the less coherent he was. Thoughts once consumed by the desire to find the entrance were now consumed by his smoke addled brain. He could hardly think of anything. His reason for running so hard in the first place had practically disappeared. He urged himself on anyways.

He was not prepared to face such a setback. He had no idea what he’d run into and had no time to process it as he tumbled backwards, taking the one in his grasp with him. Another harsh cough left him, but he could hardly hear it over the coughing fit behind him. They were in danger whether they could escape or not.

“Ashe!”

He’d been trying to figure out if the surface he ran into was a dead end but was instead greeted by a voice he was sure he could recognize and yet couldn’t place. Another cough seized him as a fresh wave of smoke clouded his lungs. He could feel hands grabbing his arms, although he could not realize it. Before long, he was violently pulled to his feet, shoulder straining as he pulled the other with him unprepared. They were up, but crouched down and it was after one more cough that he recognized the face he was looking at.

Its expression was likely a mirror of his own, full of worry and twisted by sharp pain. His older—adoptive—brother, Christophe was crouched before him, adorned with ash splotches of his own. Without another word, the older man tugged on his arm and pulled them to a direction he had not known was an option. An arm pulled, a hand tugged, the three sprinted through the smoke filled halls. Even the furniture and corners of walls they hit could not stop them. Each step they took became more painful for their bodies, but they could not stop. Distant screams and cries for help could hardly be heard over their own haggard breathing.

After what not only seemed like a lifetime, but had likely also lost it, they saw the promise of sky. Yet, their escape outside did little to comfort them. The sky was not as they would have believed, filled with the blinding light of raging fire around the city. Even the illuminated dark sky was not clear, for the thick layer of ashen smog that covered them also covered it.

“Come on!” Christophe’s voice, usually rich with his gentle strength, was tainted by raspy anxiety.

Ashe felt his arm being pulled away from their home and even if he would have wanted, he had no strength to deny it. He let himself be led along, trying to fill his lungs with as much less soot-polluted air as he could. His desperation yet hollowness made him a follower and as a follower, he didn’t not pay attention to his surroundings. What finally snapped him out of that stupor was when he found himself pulling his two brothers to the ground as he slipped. The two stumbled, nearly falling too, while he felt his cheek against the cold stone. The only issue was the stone was not cold. It too was tortured by the heat above and wet from something he did not know.

When he sat up, that was when he noticed the liquid. The ground was not red from the fire alone, but from the trail of blood that left a body nearby. The way it almost boiled his skin told him that even after death, one could not escape the agonizing heat of the city of endless light.

Before he could fully get to his feet, he was pulled along again. His thoughts were still cloudy, but unlike before he now saw everything around him. The sea of fire. The blood stained streets. The screaming mobs running just as he was. They had largely been alone in the house and in their first few minutes on the streets, but the most of the citizens must have gone through the same ordeals. Now, in addition to the fiery heat that burned them and the pain that stabbed them, there was the heat of many bodies stuck around them and the pains of elbows and shoes and hands that hit them from such proximity. At one point, he even felt the grip on his arm loosen and, eventually, release. They had lost Christophe in the crowd.

Panic overflowed his system, shutting down his determination to flee a awareness to settle in. His eyes, still sore and stinging, widened as he tried to look through the crowd. The static nature of him and his younger brother was no appreciated by the rushing crowd. As he looked about, he felt elbow after countless elbow after occasional foot hit and prod him, forcing him to step back each time. Leaving the crowd would not have been too bad if that didn’t mean the closer they got to the edge, the closer they got to the searing heat at their backs. Even so, he could hardly fight the crowd when he was no longer following it. He did not wish to be at the edge, to be so close to the flames, but if he wanted to find his family he had no choice. He didn’t think he could survive if he lost them. Without them, he wouldn’t have much purpose for living.

The panic once again set in, but this time from realizing even if he found Christophe, some of his family was still missing. His breathing quickened and he could feel the hair on the back of his head almost singe. He felt something grab at his shin and when he looked down, he saw too small hands reaching from the ground and amidst the crowd. The skinny arms they belonged to were trampled and kicked by the waves of desperate citizens, but they did not let go. They held to him, as if they were clinging for dear life.

When the first small gap he saw between people opened up, he reached his free hand down to pull at the arms so desperately clinging to him. It wasn’t smooth, and an incoming person caused whoever he grabbed to fall to the side. They’d escaped, but not unscathed. Ashe was relieved, when the small hands and arms had revealed his younger sister. What did not relieve him was how in addition to the soot blanket they all had was the vibrant mark on her face. Blood—not too new yet not very old—extended past her hairline and trickled onto her forehead and cheek with a heavy dusting coating her eyelashes.

“Are you okay?” He shouted over the screams knowing well there was no way she could be in these conditions.

She nodded, tears painted a light pink as they trickled down her cheeks. They were used to chaotic lives, but not to this. This was far beyond any experience they’d ever been through. Even all the stories they read never had scenes like this. Even the bloodiest war stories they’d heard never depicted horrors as such. It was one thing to hear or read about tragedies and a completely different thing to struggle through one. The crowd thinned, for only just a moment, and Ashe used the opportunity to rush forward, dragging both of his younger siblings with him. To join the mob of those desperate to flee was not ideal, but there was little other choice.

So, they ran and they screamed and they became one of the mass of desperation. They ran for minutes, months, years, he did not know. He became almost mindless again, panicking only about escaping and fresh air.

Then, when they reached the plaza, Ashe finally caught a glimpse of the brother he’d lost earlier. Christophe was on the other side of the crowd, at the edge of where road met the circular plaza, a spot few were lingering on for it meant no escape. He cared not for the mob lurching in a direction he was not. He simply wished—needed—to be with his family again. And so, pulling a younger sibling with each hand, he forced his way through the crowd towards his older brother. With each foot he stepped on, a kick he’d receive. With each shoulder, he’d receive an elbow to the face. The abuse, the bruises, none of it mattered, and as he finally burst from the crowd, the hole they’d made was instantly filled with scrambling bodies.

All three of them were bruised and out of breath, but that did not stop the relief from setting in as Christophe noticed them. He too, had relief in his inferno reflecting eyes.

“You’re safe!”

His arms were outstretched, but before he could envelop them all in a hug, disaster struck.

It was exhausting and terrifying to dodge and escape the flames, but as much as fire ate up the houses and people inside, if one was away from fire they were at least safe from it directly licking your skin. That what was made the crowd flee with such desperation rather than with fear. As long as they avoided the fire, the they wouldn’t be grabbed by it. No one dared anticipate the fire would find and chase them.

All Ashe could see was the bolt of fire streak right towards his eldest brother and strike him in the chest. He knew that beneath the flames was an arrow, but knowing such information did nothing. For, no matter what the case, he had just witnessed the flames draining the life from his eldest brother’s eyes and pump dread into his own heart.

He could hear a scream from close by. Was it one of his younger siblings or him? It was loud and full of pain, but was but one among many cacophonous shrieks of pain and loss. He did not know when he’d run to his brother’s side or knelt next to it. The arrow still burned as it stuck out of his brother’s chest, his heart. The fire around them was still reflected in his eyes. The fire had completely consumed him, like the many others they’d passed on the streets and like the many others who never managed to escape their homes.

He did not know if he cried or not, for his eyes stung anyways, filled with the airborne debris and soot of the end of happiness. From the corner of his eye, he could see someone within the flames. As they emerged, the incarnations of molten doom, a shrill cry left his sister. It was hard to make out her words other than the first two words: It’s them. He had no time to talk with his sister, to learn how she knew them and who they were. He hadn’t even had time to ask about the wound on her head, which had once again begun to flow with blood. He did not know who they were, but he also had no need to ask. The items in their hands were enough to inform him of their position.

A torch. A spear. The bow that had embraced the fire that killed his brother. The sword soiled from the blood no doubt of the man they had killed. It was no doubt they instigated this tragedy. The last object—the one held in the other head of the sword wielder—was held high for all to see, and Ashe got the answer to the question that had long been lingering in his mind. He’d started into the lifeless eyes of his brother consumed by flames. He now stared into the lifeless eyes of his father bloodied by sword.

He was almost thankful for the fogginess in his brain, for without it he may have lost his mind then and there. He may have let the despair overtake him. Instead, mixed with his grief was the drive to protect what he had left.

The glint of steel. Ashe looked past the corpse of his brother. When Christophe fell to the ground, the sword on his belt had been jostled from its sheath. A small part of the blade had been revealed, and the last sparks on the arrow were reflected within it. Ashe gazed upon it for a moment. He gulped and surged forward to grab it. Ripping it from the sheath, he turned to parry an attack from the spear wielder.

He was determined. He was fighting to protect and Christophe had encouraged it. For this blade was a special one. It was not forged in the strongest metal or swung by some gallant hero of the past. To anyone else’s eyes, it would be a typical aged sword. Ashe, however, recognized each nick on the blade, each scuff on the leather handle. It was a sword Christophe had been gifted long ago. He cared for and practiced with it daily. Some days, as Ashe watched him from a window or a patch of grass in the training grounds, Christophe would hold it out to him with a smile and ask if he wanted to give it a try.

And, it was Christophe himself, for his name had been engraved on the grip: Christophe Gaspard. It had worn down over time, making a few letters indistinguishable, but Ashe didn’t need to see them all to know. He knew Christophe was still here with him, just for a moment, telling him to pick up his sword and fight.

So fight he did.

He was no expert swordsman—he’d preferred his lessons on the bow—but Lonato, his now late adopted father, had wished for them all to be prepared for any kind of situation. He was a kind and caring man, and although from time to time Ashe had despised him for making them take lessons they did not wish for, that anger only lasted a moment. He was always grateful for the opportunity to learn—the opportunity to live. Now, he stood strong for them thanks to them.

He was on defense more than offense, seeing as the person he fought was far more adept with their weapon than he was, but every once in a while he’d get a strike in. They rarely hit and if they did, it was no more than a small scratch, but that was all he needed to keep going, to keep hitting. His defense, although decent, wasn’t all that strong. The blows that managed to hit him were far deeper than the mere scratches he inflicted. A scream left him, one to encourage himself onward. He could do it. He would do it. He needed to do it. It wasn’t until he saw the arrow fly by him that he realized he wasn’t enough.

He watched as the arrow struck his fleeing sister in the back of her head. Instantly she fell forward, forehead smacking into the ground. She was still, as the blood pooled around her face and flowed from the wound in the back of her head. He knew not if she was dead or if she was dying a slow and suffering death. He hoped it was the former.

Only then did his brain process the screaming he heard when his own died down. It was close and it was not the pain of someone scared or worried or in pain. It was a scream unlike any other. A scream filled with such blood-curdling agony. It was not the scream grief or fear or inevitable death, but one of tortuously long life. Of unbearable torture.

As he felt a shivering warmth in his stomach, he could only focus on the view of his younger brother being burned alive by the one who wielded the torch. Unlike his sister, who he knew faced inevitable death it had not already overcome her, he knew his brother would die in the most excruciating way possible, for he could not protect them, not with his blood flowing around the spear that had struck him. He peeled his eyes from his brother and knew that even if he couldn’t tell he must be crying by now. He looked at the woman who had stabbed him, a fury he’d never felt before in his eyes. He couldn’t not protect them. He had failed. As he saw a sword swing for his neck. This sight—of his suffering and dead siblings as well as those who had killed them—would be the last thing he ever saw. Despite the flurry of emotions he had had, he could now only feel one thing.

Rage.

For a moment, Dimitri almost though he could see someone sitting on that rock. A young man, with silvery gray hair, with the look of someone who had once lost anything. He was not covered from head to toe in ash and although he did not look happy, he looked healthier than one would have expected. He gulped, as he saw this glimpse of Ashe before once again seeing an empty rock.

“Except, that wasn’t the last thing I saw,” Ashe’s story carried on. “I’m not sure when I came to, a day later, weeks later, maybe even a year, all I knew was that the fire had stopped and the sunlight shone from above. I’d woken up in the burnt ruins of my home and I couldn’t even see the corpses of my family beside me. In fact, I had no body. I don’t know what I became—what I am. I’m tied to the sword, but I am not the sword. I was human but am not anymore.”

“So, this sword,” Dimitri looked at the letters he’d once read, “It says the name of your brother?”

He didn’t know how, but he could tell Ashe nodded. “Christophe Gaspard, the heir to the Gaspard region and yet there’s no trace left. The region no longer exists and neither does he.”

It was true, Dimitri had read about that region in the history books, but seeing as it was a domain under minor nobility, it had never been that notable. The books sited its end, but never went into such detail. Before this story, he’d never even know the last heir was named Christophe Gaspard. He’s never know the wrongs done to Ashe.

“So, you became some sort of spirit an possessed the sword then?” Dimitri was less inquiring and more making a statement of observation.

“To think I’d be trapped in a fate worse than death.” Ashe spoke in a cruel laugh meant only to demean himself. “How ironic, isn’t it? That the rage I felt for a moment was stronger than my desire to die without them.”

There was silence. Dimitri didn’t know how to respond to that. How could he respond to that? He’d witnessed tragedies of his own and developed lasting traumas, but in this moment they didn’t feel like they could compare. He never had siblings and he’d seen his parents peacefully laying in their coffins as their death was mourned. Ashe’s story made him sick to the stomach and he had only heard it. The silence lasted for all too long, because now Dimitri had a question eating him up inside, far more than any other one had.

“I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through.”

“You have no need to apologize.”

Dimitri bit his lip. Ashe was right. What could he have done? There was nothing. Even if his ancestor’s ancestors had been the one to incite the attack there was nothing he could do. Even if they had, Ashe had seemingly choose not to hate Dimitri for it. Maybe the sword would have used it to drive him mad and to his doom. Maybe it’d be a form of revenge for the utmost treachery. But this was Ashe, and he knew Ashe cared for him no matter what happened in the past. Ashe had forgiven him if he even had something to be forgiven for.

It was still eating Dimitri. He couldn’t stay silent.

“I just…I can’t understand how you can support me and my revenge.” He ran his hands through his hair, stressed by this new knowledge. “I mean I can’t imagine what I’m doing will be much different. I want revenge on the nobles and that means destroying the country. It means destroying Fhirdiad no matter the consequences. I just—”

“And why should I care?”

Dimitri looked at the rock with wide eyes. “Wha—”

“Those I cared for—lived for—died long ago. What use are my morals? What use is my sense of justice? As far as I know, those nobles could be the descendants of the very people who ended my life,” Dimitri now knew the weight of that word, “in which case I’d say head on. This could be my revenge too.”

Dimitri was frowning, not liking the grim side of the usual somewhat cheery Ashe. It hurt him to know that this being he cared so much for had suffered so much, and that he would likely suffer more because of him.

“I just want to make sure you’re sure. The last thing I want is to force you to do something you don’t want. I care for you.”

“I know,” Ashe’s voice was soft, a little tender. “And I’m telling you its fine. In all honesty, I doubt you’ll go to the lengths they did. You purely wish to eliminate the country which doesn’t necessarily mean killing all the people in it. I trust you. It might not mean much coming from a sword, but I care for you too.”

“You’re not sword.”

“I know, I’m some weird spirit hanging onto a sword.” The attempt at humor assured Dimitri Ashe was no longer as sullen, but he wouldn’t let this moment pass by just yet.

“No, I meant you’re not just a sword to me. You mean a lot to me and I’m glad that even if you ended up in a horrible position after your death, I’m glad I got to meet you. I promise I’ll be here to share your pain from now on.”

“I’m glad to have met you too.” Ashe’s voice got a little softer. “And I’ll make sure you no longer have to fight alone.

In this moment, Dimitri wanted nothing more than to pull Ashe into his arms. To hold him tight and breathe in his scent. To tell him it would all be alright so long as they’d stay together and they’d stay together until the end. He didn’t just want to do that, he needed to do it. Even if he needed it, the sad reality of their situation was that he could not. Instead, he gave a gentle caress to the letters on the sword’s grip, knowing his sign of affection towards the sword meant more. It was a sign of his acknowledgment of Ashe’s past, and encouragement to push on. Ashe would know what he meant. They now shared and unbreakable bond. Ashe would understand.

With the story done and moment gone, Dimitri could feel the fatigue flow over his body. He blinked heavily a few times, wondering if he could manage to stay up a little longer. As he wondered, he heard Ashe’s voice again, but this time it was closer than it had ever been. It came from right next to him.

“You should sleep. You have a few tiresome days ahead of you.”

Dimitri felt his head droop a little before he lifted it back upright. He gave a small nod. He couldn’t feel his body heat, he couldn’t hear his breath, but Dimitri knew Ashe was right beside him. They were closer now than ever and that was a comforting thought. He could almost picture the young man from earlier, curled up at his side, head resting on his shoulder as they both leaned against the tree. He was content. He was calm. He was genuinely happy for the first time in years. As he drifted off to sleep, he almost missed the last few words Ashe whispered, voice laced with affection.

“Thank you, Dimitri.”

He wiped at the blood splattered on his chin. With one swift movement, he yanked the sword from the chest of the corpse on the ground. He looked up. He could see smoke in the distance—or maybe it was dust—but there luckily were no infernos like in Ashe’s past. There were people running and fleeing, but there were also people staying locked up in their homes. With the attacks being largely focused on people like the man he’d just killed, it meant they could keep civilian casualties to a minimum.

“I saw the other one flee to the left.” He heard Ashe’s voice from near his back.

“Got it, thanks.” He rushed in that direction.

The last remainder of hope that diminished when they reached the capital city. It had taken another day and a half for them to arrive, meaning the fight was to take place in the early afternoon. Aside from Ashe’s backstory and the fact that the two of them were closer than they ever would have imagined, nothing notable had happened on the remainder of their trip. They’d hashed out a few more details and made sure they both knew the plan, but that had been about it.

Although he’d long said he accepted the end of his ruined kingdom via death, he had unknowingly held out a little bit of hope until the last minute. The only other big difference in his original acknowledgment, was that he no longer felt his death was required to bring about the end. Of course, he wouldn’t complain if it came. He’d accept death if it meant being with Ashe—even if that was more of an absence than death itself. His once grim and unmotivated outlook on life was a little better, and that was all thanks to his new companion.

Destruction of the kingdom was focused in the capital city of Fhirdiad, seeing as his predictions about nobility and the counsel meeting had been correct. Not all nobles would need to die, only those who abused their power, and that was the majority of them. He’d already eliminated most of them thanks to Ashe’s help in tracking them down. Their strategy had worked out well.

When they first stepped foot in the capital city, Dimitri donned a cloak he’d packed and ran around the streets, vandalizing whatever he could. It was simple, crude, and most certainly an ineffective way to do it, but he wasn’t looking for immediate results. After a short period of time, local authorities had been sent after him. When they failed to catch him, it drew the attention of more powerful people. The council meeting was scheduled for the next day, so none of them would be busy with that. Instead, many chose to spend their time leisurely, like they were on vacation, on the days they need not work. So, when they unknown vandal began attacking the places they were staying, whether that be hotel or mansion for capital visits, they were sure to take notice. When they found out local authorities didn’t have it under control, their arrogance and irritation would lead them to try and control it themselves.

It was that result that Dimitri waited for. He’d successfully baited a number of nobles into letting their guards down and stepping out of their homes. They never expected to face anything other than a vandal, so, Dimitri easily cut them down one after another with Ashe’s sword. The whole time, Ashe watched his back so whether he escaped guards or sliced the throats of nobility, he always appeared to be a step ahead.

It had been tiresome work, but he had made sure to rest well the past couple of days. It was nothing like the cold northernmost region of Faerghus which meant it no longer felt that hard. With Ashe, it no longer felt that hard. Whenever he took small breaks, Ashe would stand watch for him so he never needed to worry about being caught. Whenever he found himself in a particularly dangerous standoff, Ashe would tell him about the enemies he couldn’t see as well so he never needed to worry about unknowingly being stabbed in the back.

This continued for hours until they found themselves at this point, chasing down the last couple of nobles. Around him as he ran were the remains of once standing buildings and those beginning to crumble. There were few bodies littering the streets and the roads still looked like stone and not as though it was blood coated. So far, it had been quite productive for little cost. Cities could be rebuilt, but lives could not. That was how he’d come to this plan.

As he rounded the corner, the alleyway opened into a large street. It was the main road that led to the capital’s castle. Standing in this road was the noble Dimitri was chasing as well as one he still had yet to kill. His uncle Rufus, the regent of the kingdom, stood next to the anxiously yapping noble. Dimitri took the spear on his back—that had been stored just outside of the capital city—and after taking a moment to judge its balance point threw it. Before either knew what happened, the talking noble found himself on the ground, bleeding out front he spear stuck in his side. He gasped and pleaded for help, but Rufus was too distracted.

Dimitri stepped forward, hooded cloak still covering his form, with his uncle’s eyes never leaving him. His uncle adjusted the grip on his spear while Dimitri changed Ashe’s sword to his dominant hand. He had planned to kill his uncle last, but there were few nobles left on his hit list and the opportunity here was too perfect to miss. He would have to take care of his uncle first and then finish off the remaining nobles.

“Are you alright?”

Ashe’s voice was close to him. He nodded. IT was hard, to be okay when faced with killing your last blood relation, a man who you’d known since you were young. Luckily, any affection he’d had for his uncle was long tainted by his hatred and desire for revenge. He was no longer the little boy who happily sat in his uncle’s lap. He was now the young man who would reclaim his kingdom from his uncle’s grasp. It would be okay, because he had Ashe by his side.

“Then let’s do this.”

Ashe’s words were all he needed to rush forward, sword ready. Rufus held up his spear, parry ready. The moment sword and spear connected, the force and sudden stop were enough for Dimitri’s hood to slide back, revealing the face of a determined man. Rufus’ eyes widened not in surprise, but anger. Dimitri knew his uncle had come to despise him as he got older, as he threatened his new position on the throne, but the look of indignation on his uncle’s face drove that fact home.

Blow after blow was exchanged and yet neither of them spoke. They had no grand speeches or demands. The two simply fought as beasts would, desperate—hungry—to win. No words needed to be exchanged because they simply had nothing to say to one another. Their mutual hatred was clear.

No other nobles were joining the fight, Ashe assured him of that. There were a couple guards that stepped forward—Dimitri wasn’t sure why there wasn’t more—but thanks to Ashe’s clear warnings and expressions, Dimitri was able to avoid their attacks. It, of course, created distance from him and his uncle, but he was not worried. He surged forward again, aiming his sword for the weak spot in a guard’s stance Ashe had pointed out. After a few more parries and blows, one of the guards was dealt with. The other took a little longer to handle, especially with Rufus occasionally sneaking in an attack, but he too fell to the ground with his companion.

Now, it was once again only Dimitri and Rufus. It was clear that he was tired. His uncle had broken a sweat, but he didn’t need to make quite as much of an effort to move. He hadn’t needed to fight as many people as Dimitri had today, and he’d been able to sleep well in a nice bed the past few nights, but Dimitri had something Rufus did not. Ashe.

He took a moment to take a few deep breaths, the only reason Rufus let him do so was so he could take a more advantageous stance. This time, Rufus attacked first, with the furiosity of someone who had long waited for this moment—a moment to kill the most prominent threat. Dimitri narrowly avoided the strike, the sharp metal just barely cutting through his shirt. A few more swings and thrusts were exchanged, each one getting closer to the mark.

Dimitri had a shallow scratch on his cheek and a few cuts on his arms. Rufus was in about the same shape, with a few scratches and a couple of deeper cuts. The two stepped back from one another yet again, trying to regain their breath and grips. They both took a couple deep breaths. Dimitri could hear the telltale sounds of weapons clashing not far from where he was, but had not the time to investigate.

“His right shoulder is drooping a little. He’s getting weak on that side.”

“Thanks.” Dimitri mumbled.

He took the lunge first once again, sword outstretched for a double-handed swipe at Rufus’ shoulder. The man managed to block it, but Dimitri could see the way he clenched his teeth. In an instant, the placement of his feet shifted and he pressed more weight into the blade, changing his attack from a slash to a stab. The tip of his blade pierced and cut through the edge of Rufus’ shoulder, illiciting a loud groan of pain. He pulled the sword out and took a step back, ready to launch his next attack.

“From the below!”

Dimitri took another step back, leaning out of the way just in time for Rufus’ spear—which had dropped low after the earlier attack. He felt the very tip of the blade nick the underside of his chin.

“He’s going to follow that up!”

Ashe’s warnings were good reminders to keep him on his toes. It was easy to grow lax in a fight, especially after tiring oneself out so much, so being able to rely on Ashe like this was the only thing that kept him going. The extra set of eyes—which were a lot better at reading combat than they implied—was extremely advantageous in a fight. He parried the next attack as his uncle jabbed the spear at his heart. Twisting the spear away with his sword, Dimitri managed to change it’s trajectory and follow up with an attack of his own.

There were fewer sounds of metal striking metal in the background, but he didn’t pay it much mind. If he needed to worry about it, Ashe would let him know. He took this moment, when Rufus was slightly thrown off, to land another strike. A deep gash was cut in Rufus’ left thigh, causing the man to stumble. Although he himself was unstable in his current stance, he used his momentum to grab onto Rufus’ legs and push them both to the ground. Now on top of his uncle, it took him a moment to recover. In that moment, Rufus had enough time to pull the dagger from his belt.

“Do it now!” He hard Ashe shout.

He did not hesitate.

That also meant he did not have time to block the attack aimed at him. The best he could do was dodge the small blade, but in such close quarters that was impossible without leaving his position. So, before his blade could meet flesh, he felt the small blade find its way into his right eye. Screaming, in both pain and rage, he brought his own blade down and into Rufus’ chest. Now, they both screamed.

Rufus’ free hand instantly moved for the blade. With the other hand, he tried to pull the dagger free from Dimitri’s head, but before he could do so, he felt one of Dimitri’s hands wrap around his own, holding the weapon in place. Dimitri could see the blood dripping down the blade and onto Rufus from the inner corner of his left eye. This pain was nothing for the sake of his revenge.

Eventually, he felt Rufus’ hands shake. Then, he felt them slowly lose their strength. Then, he finally witnessed their grip loosen as they tried to cover the wound created from the blade still embedded in him. When he saw Rufus go limp, that was when his own grip finally loosened. His eye hurt more than anything he’d ever experienced but he didn’t dare remove the blade until he was near a healer. Standing up, he felt a little dizzy, but he knew he couldn’t stop when there was still work to do. He could heard footsteps hurrying his way. He lifted up Ashe’s sword, ready to fight whoever came at him next.

“We’re almost don—” but the moment the sword came into his vision, his words stopped.

His vision went blurry as he fell to his knees. His left hand, bloody from the dagger and his eye, raised to cover his mouth. Before him was the sword from the pommel to the grip that bore Christophe Gaspard’s name. Still embedded in Rufus’ corpse was the rest of the sword, which must have broken at some point during his last strike. Dimitri had no idea how it happened, no idea when it broke, but all at once a feeling of dread and loss overwhelmed him.

“Ashe?” He called, voice trembling.

There was no answer.

The feet were close to him no, but he did not care. Why should he care in this situation?

“Ashe?” He called a little louder, voice still shaking.

There was still no answer.

His vision was shaky and his head hurt. His legs had gone limp and he lost all feeling in his right hand although he could still see he gripped tightly onto the hilt that had once been attached to the blade. He heard a cry sob leave him as his vision blurred and a pair of feet entered his vision. He half expected to find his own head cut off, but would not have cared. What point in living was there when Ashe too had now left him? Instead of a blade slicing his throat, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” The voice seemed distant, almost unrecognizable.

He did not respond.

“Get a healer! His eye is still bleeding!” He heard a different distant voice shout.

The hand on his shoulder disappeared and was soon replaced. This one was larger, heavier.

“Your Highness.” This voice, still distant, he recognized.

Tears streaming from one eye, and blood from the other, he tilted is head back to look at the man standing behind him. There stood the tall dependable retainer he’d chased away.

“Oh good, he’s responsive. Dimitri, Felix went to get a healer for you.” Came one of the voices from earlier, a friend he’s lost to grief and disagreements.

“You could have given a bit more of a head’s up.” The first voice, the voice of a friend too busy to heed his call.

The last voice, the voice belonging to none other than Sylvain Jose Gautier, grabbed onto the hilt in his hand. Dimitri tightened his grip and pulled it away, realizing the other was trying to take it away. He could just barely make out Sylvain holding his hands up.

“We dealt with the nobles you hadn’t gotten to. Dedue filled us in on who.” Came the voice of Ingrid Brandl Galatea, an ever loyal soldier.

Dimitri did not acknowledge their words and, instead, pulled himself from Dedue’s hand and towards Rufus’ body.

“You shouldn’t move.” Dedue advised.

He still didn’t list, mind focused on one thing and one thing alone. Now hovering of Rufus once again, Dimitri’s hands gripped the blade, not caring for how the sharp edge dug into his skin. He pulled.

“Whoa whoa! Stop that!” Sylvain cried, scrambling forward to try and stop Dimitri from hurting himself more.

Dimitri, of course, did not listen and instead put all of his strength into pulling the blade out. It came out a lot harder than it had gone in, but Dimitri could hardly feel the stinging cuts on his hands. He didn’t care even if he could feel them. He placed the hilt in his lap and practically cuddled the blade. He could hear those around him raising concerns and asking questions, but he was too focused on his grief for Ashe.

Ashe had said it was ironic, that he’d been forced to live beside the blade rather than die with his family. Dimitri now understood this to be the true curse of Faerghus’ legendary blade. It wasn’t that one would go mad with power, but that even after anything, one would be left alone without those they loved dearest. That had been Ashe’s curse. Now that was Dimitri’s curse.

It was when his comrades began discussing what to do next that he thought he felt something by his side. He looked up—still not used to seeing through only one eye—and spoke.

“We’ll rebuild the kingdom. It needs complete restructuring. New heads of noble houses, new divisions of power, new rules in place to make sure those things never happen again.”

“Those things?” Sylvain asked.

Dimitri shook his head. There were too many things they needed to prevent. He couldn’t sum it up in a few words. They needed to fix everything Rufus had done, repair the damage made by the nobles and make sure that was the last time governmental power could be used like that. They’d need to make sure alliances were strong and that allies were not blamed for things they never committed. They needed to make sure mass extermination could never again happen. Most of all, he needed to build a kingdom he knew Ashe would be proud of.

He pushed himself to his feet, blade and hilt still in hand, despite the protests of his friends. Ingrid was scolding him and Sylvain looked frantic while Dedue rested a hand on his back. Felix was not far away, running with a medic in tow. He was not alone, even if he couldn’t hear Ashe. In the end, he still had friends who could help him here and now.

No one could ever replace Ashe, but he wasn’t worried. He may not be able to hear his voice, but he could tell. He knew Ashe was still with him, standing at his side and watching his back. He could sense it. He knew it. He could feel it. The sword may be gone, but Ashe was not gone. He may not be able to hear him anymore, but the presence he felt at his side assured him he was still there. Besides, the sword breaking wouldn’t be enough to get rid of Ashe. He’d been placed into his cursed position because of his rage, and there was no way his rage could have died like this. Ashe was still here, Dimitri knew it. After all, they had made promises to always be there for one together.