BLOODFAEN

The sword was neatly tucked away, strewn with autumn leaves and unread ancient tomes. It had been lost, now only a useless trinket without a name. No one remembered its tale. No one remembered its glory. No one remembered the blade at all.

Its home stood beneath an ancient witchwood tree, its keeper long dead. His bones collected dust within a shadowed corner, the hollowed sockets of his skull bereft of coal gray eyes, and yet these old bones watched and waited. After so many years, their wait was nearly at an end.

Just as the sun began its descent, its peaks of fire washed over the sword’s metal flesh, lighting the shadows until the tree itself seemed ablaze. None saw it, for the tree was hidden deep within a wild wood, so dense and cluttered with dead foliage, it nearly choked out the dying daylight. Still, the blade of the sword was washed clean of its shadows and shone like a bright new star.

No one saw it. No one was meant to see it. Yet, a pair of crystal blue eyes peeked out from a faded holly bush, watching the sword’s fire burn brightly. Unblinking, those eyes squinted in the crimson light, in awe of such a spectacular sight. It was not long before a face poked out of its hiding place, a young and boyish visage spared the jaded scars of manhood and war. A pale, lanky body followed after.

The young man, known only to his master as the Creature, crept toward the lighted witchwood tree, and with little trembling and fear, entered its hollowed out entrance. Bathed in its fire, he looked about him for the source, and there was the sword, draped in bloody crimson light and unburdened of its covering. Its flesh was rune-covered. Jewels spilled across its hilt in a graceful cascade. It was beautiful, and the boy was not afraid to reach for it.

In his hand, the sword sang. Its fire leaped to his flesh, spreading across his body with the swiftness of a storm. The blade was heavy, but the boy could lift it up with both his hands. He looked about him. The skeleton of the old keeper was quiet in its corner, and there were none else to claim the sword.

“It is mine then,” said the boy, and his blue eyes flashed a bloody red. Sword in hand, he dreamed of what glory it might bring him. Of fortune and honor and power. But first, he dreamed of blood. The blood of his master upon this newfound blade. He smiled, and gave a final glance back to the skeleton as he left. Its gaping jaw seemed to give him a toothy grin, and he watched as the skull bowed its head before toppling to the ground.

It was enough for him. He took the blade and made his way back to his master’s house, dreaming of blood and fire. The sun set, and the light of the witchwood tree faded and was no more.

 by Keshia C. Willi