By the Sword

Existence depends on the context. What is alive by a particular set of standards is dead by another. The things humans create have life; they have a soul. These things do not utter sentences like humans do because this is a human thing. They make us with a purpose, and this purpose gives us life.

Fire forged me.

Controlled chaos enveloped my senses when I realized thoughts belonged to me, and this controlled chaos would define the crux of my existence after my birth. My first master gave me my life; he gave me a purpose. He folded and repeatedly pounded my steel upon itself until he realized my deadly form's perfection. Beauty and death encapsulated my design; one beheld the grace and nature of my purpose.

Once my hard skin cooled in water and dried, the first master added the guard. And what a glorious construction! It combined with my effulgent steel skin in perfect harmony, displaying an elegant dragon composition fit for a true warrior. The collar, handle, and black braid to follow all complemented the sleek architecture of the golden guard. Even the butt cap or kashira, as spoken in the human tongue, resonated with resplendent style. Ostentatious ornaments decorated the handle, and when my birthing process concluded, I had never experienced a higher level of unification.

The master of my creation held me in the air before him and granted me my first slices through the air. I flew through the wind, cutting the air, and he commanded me with an all-knowing sense. His hands passed upon gratitude and satisfaction like none other. The master grew so overjoyed with me! In truth, he held me and practiced with me more than any other swords that came before and, I say with confidence, any to come after.

The first master transported me to my counterpart, where I would slumber, my saya or scabbard, until my need as a warrior arose. My loving shelter... It appeared black to the pitch, with two golden dragons etched on both sides made of thin golden lines. The sageo and kurikata leading to the scabbard mouth, or koiguchi as I've known it - live in my mind as inviting and beautiful as the flesh and blood of an enemy ready to die.

With reluctance, I passed on from the first master of my creation. Through his touch, I experienced a profound sense of sorrowful loss. This remains the only time I would ever encounter such emotions from any that held me, and it remains the only time I wished to stay in my scabbard to drown in the joyous and loving hands of the one who created me.

War was imminent.

The details I do not recall, for it happened so long ago. I remember joy; I would soon realize my purpose. I would fight, and I would kill. I would relish in the blood of my enemies as intended and destroy any that would dare block my path. My destiny to be a part of such a thing pushed me to bloodlust. This remains my only true nature. I am an instrument of death, you see.

An eerie calmness blanketed the battlefield as if those present realized most would die; they worked to ignore the notion. Men shouted from one to the other, giving last-minute orders and attending to final preparations. The sudden movement came upon me following that calm, and the chaos of battle caught me off guard at first. With eager determination, I immersed myself in the violent symphony. The bouncing from the creature my master rode - a horse - shook me until the moment of light. The darkness of the scabbard ended, and my steel lay naked to the world. I grew confident in my purpose, and without hesitation, I struck upon the enemy.

My first duty rested with my master. I did my best to protect him, blocking blows from those created to kill as I did. My skills proved superior. I prevented the attempted death blows, and I even shattered weaker opponents. In the haze of confusion, I can't recall which human life ended by my steel. But I remember the mixture of blood that soaked into the essence of my existence and exhilarated me beyond words. Enemy after enemy went down and died. Sword after sword challenged my might and failed. My war master and I emerged from the chaos unbeatable.

The yells subsided, replaced by the groans of men about to die mixed with the cheers of the victors. I, my master, and those who fought and survived with him remained. We emerged victorious, and the blood from that day gave me something to live for. It came across as cruel the way my war master wiped the precious blood from my blade and placed me back within my counterpart. I looked forward to the idea of battle while I lay in slumber. When the next engagement would occur, it preoccupied me like blue preoccupies the sky on a cloudless day.

Many campaigns and battles followed. Time and time again, the swiftness of my movements defeated my master's enemies, and they perished with extreme prejudice one after another. None possessed the might to stand before us, and none would. Much to my dismay, the time gap between engagements grew, and my slumbers extended. Years would pass until I once again experienced the light.

I remember the last touch of my war master. He held me up, and his hands changed from what I remembered. The once solid and fearless hands I recalled from the first battle vanished. Cold hands replaced them - fragile and unable to maintain a tight grip. Sadness entered my essence, and as the sadness deepened, the old, weak hands pulled me from my scabbard, allowing me the light.

New hands touched me; these hands belonged to the war master's son. My new duty lay with protecting him. I would fight for his honor, and my commitment unto him would be like a mountain upon the earth: unmovable. His hands expressed a delicacy and held me with an immense respect as deep as the respect he harbored for his dying father. The gratefulness and exhilaration of his hands passed to me, and at that moment, I ignored the words spoken between a dying father and his only son. Some things are meant to be ignored.

He practiced much with me, and I did my best to guide him in the proper forms. I spent more time training with him than I did with his father. The relationship satiated some aspects of my being, but I still craved blood and flesh. The contest of battle defined my existence. One fateful day upon a dirt road, the gods would grant my lust for battle, and little did I know the blood spilled would not be my enemy's.

Another man traveled the road between villages. He passed my master with disdain, and a quick insult shot from his mouth. Honor being the way, I urged my master to speak up and demand an apology. The enemy would not yield and continued to spew foul vituperation. We attacked first, and the first strike sent the man back with a quick reflex; he smiled as if expecting the move. Before one could breathe, the stranger drew his sword, and it craved blood. Like recognized like.

To this day, the sword held by the stranger remains unfamiliar. The combatant blade exuded wisdom and experience, making me believe it was created before my birth. Blood of countless enemies coated the naked steel over time, and it cried its warnings to me, recognizing the youthful inexperience I protected. I, like my master, did not listen. We would have our blood on this day.

The next strike happened at great speed. The young master used me to execute a graceful block and counterattack. To my dismay, the counterattack failed. The elder blade laughed at me as if knowing I could do nothing to save the young master. I urged my master to go on. I believed I would not fail him.

The duel ended in a heartbeat; most of these encounters finish in the blink of an eye. With a few strokes of a confident blade, the victor lives another day while the loser hopes for an honorable death. He held on to me for as long as his grip allowed after he fell on the dirt road. The man who insulted him trotted off down the path, intent on the business preoccupying him before the encounter, and the elder sword returned to its scabbard after having my master's blood wiped from its blade.

The grip remained determined, like he never intended to let go; I thought he might survive. His hand unclenched; the pressure vanished from his grip as his soul fled his body. I fell to the dirt road like some mundane object to be tossed aside without care. I yearned only to be held again. I wanted time to reverse so I might redeem myself and protect my master, but I failed. His dead body next to me on the side of the road reminded me of this.

Half a day passed before someone stumbled upon his body on the road. This man lived without honor and pillaged through my master's body, searching with desperate determination for anything of value. He lifted the scabbard from the body and lifted me from the ground. I returned to slumber, taken away from the light.

The hands of the thief did not understand grace or gratitude. They lacked confidence and held me like a desperate drunk man trying to hold on to his balance. Those he challenged disposed of him with the ease of breathing, and I cannot say that I experienced sorrow for this or that I even tried to protect the waste of flesh.

More slumber followed his demise. Then, a few more meaningless battles. More people held me, and none gave me the respect I deserved, so as a result, I cared little for their welfare. All the while, I yearned to be with the original master who created me in the fires of chaos so long ago. I desired to bathe in his loving grip.

Time flowed like an uncaring river, and I fell into the grip of my last master. He led a group of bandits with their own code of right and wrong. My final engagement took place in a forest far from any homes and far from any roads. The bandits I found myself attached to understood little of actual fighting, and when men from the lord's personal estate hunted them, they discovered their pathetic camp. The well-trained soldiers slaughtered the bandits down to the last man.

The rogue bandit holding me did well enough for one not trained. He was not ready for a sword like me. I killed a few of the lord's soldiers, given that his will and determination fueled some of my skill, but I fell to the ground with the bandit soaked in blood. Snow fell, sprinkling the forest as he took his last breaths. The battle continued, and the pure white of nature mixed into a bloodied crimson by man's insatiable need for violence. Not a single bandit remained alive, and nature buried me along with the other bodies beneath the falling snow.

Time passed, as it always does. The bodies of the bandits decayed as the seasons changed, and nature disposed of and reused them in the forest with her great wisdom. The ground rose around me as the seasons adjusted. I found myself buried beneath the earth, never able to speak or be with my saya again. I yearned for the scabbard that comforted me during my times of rest. Saya was lost to me, and I became lost in time.

So many years passed.

On one fateful day, the surrounding earth moved. Light shined down upon my blade, and I experienced the sun's brilliance again. I imagined what the world would be like centuries later. The age I hailed from vanished, and the men who recovered me passed me around like some delicate thing that might break at the slightest pressure. If only they knew my true glory and conquest! If only they knew my actual strength!

They took me, cleaned me, and brought me back. My design remained a marvel to gaze upon with loving eyes. As far as I understood it, my purpose continued to be that of a protector and death dealer. Those who unearthed me harbored other plans. They cleaned and treated me well, but their intentions were not for combat. I am a former shell of what I once was, now made to sit on display.

They call this place a museum. The humans collect old artifacts and show them off for those to look upon and study. The age to which I was born was dead, as was my purpose. From those imprisoned with me, I learned of far more destructive weapons created that made the likes of my kind obsolete.

Children pass, adults pass, and they all reach out, wanting to hold me. I can see it in their eyes, but I am behind glass. My purpose now is for amusement, and never again will I experience the hold of a true warrior. Never again would the respect and joy of being held by my creator master or my first war master overtake me. Only by my kind did I know this world, and that was by the sword.