The Sword-Warden Pt.2

Part Two is here!! Enjoy!

Looking for Part One? Click here.

A sword as light as a feather and as keen as fire. An emerald gem was set in its pommel, and mossy brown roots formed the hilt. The steel was such a bright silver that it glowed and produced a light of its own.

It was the sword of the fae king.

And the light that poured from it awoke once again the fae. They emerged from the trees and their secret places and stood behind Asher.

And the black raiders charged.

Asher fought like the warriors of old.

And as evil fell with the shined blade, so did the forest tremble with new life.

The fae were fighting!

For a boy!

They fought on the black cliffs by the edge of a black sea. The rain fell, and salt misted the air. 

But Asher was a boy.

And he could not fight forever.

The last standing raider took him by surprise and drove his sword deep.

The boy collapsed on the wet rocks, his hand clutching his wound, his blood pouring out in the cold night air.

But the fae lifted up Asher, still clutching the sword in his bloodied hand, and carried him into the woods.

And they healed him.

A new spring came to life in the place where Asher took up the sword, and the clean, fresh water began to flow. Drop by drop, cleansing the rotten earth. The light flowed with the river, dewing the grasses by the morning sunrise, setting a glow in the deep places of the earth.

Asher was healed, but there was something in him now that would never be healed.

The curse of the blade was upon him.

The fae, now having fought beside Asher, remembered the forgotten truth. The hope that even the earth had been buried.

They also remembered the evil and the darkness that had brought about their disappearance.

The fae king had become corrupted. Driven mad with rage and fury, he cursed the sacred forest of Vengonlanth and drove the fae into a sleeping trance. 

He also concealed the sword he had forged to protect the fae and the land and made it forgotten.

Now, the land was re-awakening. And the sword had chosen its new master.

Asher would take the sword to the very edge of the forest, where it falls into the black sea. And there he would fight the fae king.

For a fae can only be killed by a weapon he creates.

Asher traveled alone. But deep in his bones, he knew the truth. As soon as his task was completed, the evil fae died.

He would turn to stone.

But the life of his land was in his hands. If the fae died, then everyone would die. Asher knew his course.

As we all will at the end.

So the boy traveled. His young feet tread against new fragile blood-red blossoms in the soft grass. The trees bent to listen to his thoughts, and the rivers laughed at his touch.

But his heart was heavy.

He recalled the face of his mother.

He recalled his early youth.

The sword was heavy in his hands, and a shuddering filled his limbs.

Then he reached the cliffs. They were higher than the highest mountain and blacker than night air.

At the edge sat the bent and twisted form of a dark fae.

His silver crown was tarnished to black. His eyes were swallowed with the evil that brings forth death.

The flowers withered at his touch. Where he stepped, it turned to crumbling, blackened stone.

Asher reached down and drew his sword.

At the edge of the world, boy and bent fae fought.

Then the sword was turned upon its old master and slew him, and he fell to crumbling dust, to the darkness he created.

Asher knelt at the edge of the cliff.

And wept.

But he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

He turned.

The fae were there, and a light, brighter than the sun, coursed into the sky.

The world breathed once more.

Slowly, softly, life crept back into the hills. Streams flowed again, trees grew, and flowers brushed up against tall grasses, swaying in the breeze.

If you travel and someday make it to the highest cliff, that rises out of a sapphire sea as a pillar of glittering white stone. You will find the most beautiful statue you have ever seen.

Perched at the edge, watching over the entrance to our land, with the kindest smile on his lips and a look of pure love in his eyes. And in his hands, you will find a magnificent sword. The inscription in fae reads.

Asher, the sword-warden, the boy who wielded the blade of the king.

And saved our lands.

* * *

The ashes in the fireplace swirled in a draft, and I still sat. The old woman’s chair creaked with a soft sigh.

I stood silently and crawled through the low door into the sunrise.

The tales that sirred my blood as a boy still trembled in my veins. I was older now.

But I will never forget them.

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