An Honorable Tool

I was born in fire.

For time immemorial, I was nothing. No consciousness. Merely a dispersed composite of raw materials. I was part of a larger whole; legion yet lacking a core, a soul. Inert and unused. I know not when the first of us were forged but it was long before I.

Removed from the womb of rock and dirt, taken as an indiscriminate shape and, for days, smelted in a furnace until I was sorted and purified, folded and hammered, coated and fired; the clang of hammer upon my unshaped body, and the pouring of water to cool. The longer they worked at me, the more I understood the passage of time. The smiths labored for months, shaping and reshaping to perfection what would become my final form. Though my purpose was unclear, the final touch fully awakened me and I marveled at what I had become; form perfected. Beautiful yet so very deadly. I glistened in the light and my edge cut like whispers through the darkened silence.

I was gifted to a powerful man, a warrior whose sense of honor burned me as that of the forge that shaped me. He was my first, and truest, master. There was reverence in those first moments; the smith, a master of his craft, holding my sheathed body in hand, bowing in supplication as he passed me to the man who would wield me with a skill far greater than any that came after. Sadly, I cannot grasp his name. But his strength and honor, those I remember. He was strong, in body and skill, in spirit and in character. Thousands followed him in reverence and in faith. He was the chosen of his people. They were proud to serve him with their lives and, if need be, their deaths.

For days, my master tested me. His form was immaculate as he slashed and stabbed the air, feinting and spinning, taking my measure. I wanted more though. I wanted to feel the impact of my sharpness against another but he'd not waste me in such pursuits. Instead, he perfected our movements and as we bonded, a time came where we were no longer man and blade. We became one being, a synergistic symbiosis difficult to define.

It was a necessary bonding when the truth of battle became known to me. Where training was about control, a battle was a chaos not unlike the forming of the world. My entire body rang whenever I clashed with another blade. And then the sounds of death: battle cries, the screams of men blooded and dying, gurgling for one last breath or whispering prayers to their gods of worship. Some--few--plead for their mothers as my master disemboweled them with my sharpened edge. The stench of blood and viscera upon my blade was a reminder of how quickly a life could end. Sometimes the taste remained for hours but always after the fighting was done, my master and his smiths cared for me, assuring my edge remained sharp, so that when duty called, I was ready to cast death upon our enemies.

For years, I was my master’s hand of death upon his enemies. In battle, we moved as smoke through air, removing heads from bodies, splitting men in twain, and shattering their defenses upon my unbreakable flesh. Then as with all men, his body became weak though his spirit remained resolute. When it was time, he passed on my legacy to his son. And to him, his son. Again and again. For generations, I served as the weapon of the eldest son, my edge never dull, my bite always true. From my service, pride formed and, like the family that wielded me, never did I doubt my trueness.

Then they came.

Like no enemy before, they swept through my newest master's lands, savaging all, breaking the bodies and spirits of his kin. Again, I was called to duty and performed it admirably but as much as I was a part of this newest master, his skill failed him. Never as strong as the ancestor that held me so long ago, he was cut down by the invaders’ king and I was taken from his dead hand. Harried from my home to a distant land across blue waters whose culture was far from what had been my world. There was no reverence as they held me; I was a mere trophy, a reminder of the land they had broken and left in ruin. There I languished, a forgotten relic no longer used in honor, but in ghoulish recreation; butchering not warriors but innocents. Men, women and children were brutalized with me as their executioner. This new world lacked the honor that forged my homeland and treachery was far more prevalent. My captor was cut down by his own brother and that was only the beginning. I would trade hands often, whether through battle or theft over and over again. My body was not cared for and I slowly began to erode. Chips in my once peerless edge and then the first signs of a sickness that seeped into my body. By then I had lost all sense of self. There was no mission, no sense of purpose, nor a righteous hand to wield my artisan fury. I existed. I prayed to the gods that they would have mercy and deliver me from such dishonor.

They listened and broke the world.

The earth shook in furious indignation and the barbarians were swallowed. Yet the gods performed their miracle too well. I was buried under dirt and rock and death. Something in me fractured and I was no longer whole. It was not unlike a time before my forging. Trapped and unable to reconcile with my purpose. I was lost in the ether of nothingness; all victories and accolades, the honor my family gained with me as their weapon was buried in every way. I felt betrayed, lost, abandoned. I wanted to fight, to rage but my will was lost amid the rubble. I accepted my fate and then, I slept.

Time was not kind to me. Though my strength resisted the pressure of the world pressing down on me, disease slowly grew as parts of myself became lost to rot. My end was near and the small part of me that still clung to my glorious past, raged at the certainty that I would eventually crumble and fade back into dust.

My haze of despair and disordered consciousness was eventually interrupted by rumblings not dissimilar to the gods’ fury that buried me. Fitting, I thought, that the earth wished to swallow me deeper, to break me apart until no semblance of what I had been remained. Only the elements that made up my once proud and dangerous form. The aspect that had clung to long forgotten honors had shriveled, enveloped by the hellish solitude only those abandoned can truly understand. Buried as I was, I welcomed my unmaking. For within me may have existed a spirit, there was no afterlife for a weapon. A tool. Only the promise of nothingness.

Then came the voices.

Had it been in a tongue familiar to me-even that of the cursed barbarians that had murdered my master and taken me from my homeland--I would have reconsidered the idea of an afterlife for a creation such as myself. But the words were garbled, spoken as if far away and without the musical litany of my former homeland. But then they were gone, and I again lost myself into the blackness.

Movement awoke me some time later. The rhythm was smooth, not the unpredictable rush that had been my journey into the new world. No longer did the pressure of the surrounding earth embrace me. I was free and yet broken. I was scarcely aware of the things around me, as a man dying of thirst lost and wandering through the desert may spy an oasis. A trick of the mind. Then came the brush of tools against my decaying form and though a small step, the first stirrings of hope, long abandoned, appeared.

Most of the tools they set upon me were nothing like those who first forged me. Words describing the process, even when spoken by someone native to that land, were a mystery. Still, their skill slowly removed the contagion that ate away at my flesh; the cleaned and re-shaped me, though they left uncompleted my broken tip. I cannot say how long it lasted, how long I felt the wax and wane of this reforging. When they replaced my habaki, guard, and handle, I knew it was done. Though not completely whole, my strength had returned. My soul sang for the glories and honors I would bring my new master, should he be worthy.

But it was not to be.

Times were no longer what I had remembered. Though wars still raged, they were no longer fought with the honor of the sword. Projectiles far more destructive and precise than arrows now ruled the lands. Though there was still those who fought for good, honor was no longer a driving factor.

And I?

I became a showpiece in what they called a museum. To be gawked and marveled at behind glass by those who would never know nor understand the honor I brought to my family. Though people came from many lands to admire and study me, there was no honor in my place as a historical wonder. Instead, I felt no different than when the barbarians dishonored me with their savagery. Surprisingly, I wished now for that empty abyss once more. To disintegrate into my baser elements. At least then I would no longer remember what had been. Maybe then I would have been reforged into something else and appreciated what I am…not the past echo of a lifetime of honor that will never again be mine.

But the gods do not hear me. There may have been a time where honor carried me but that time is past. I now understand; no matter the honor, I am- and always have been-nothing more than a tool.