I lay in the grass for hours.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "What, a sword can feel time passing?" Spoiler: I can't.
But I still know when time's dragging, and right now? It's dragging.
I'm an inanimate object, if you haven't figured that out already.
I would move if I could. Believe me. I've tried.
But nope, just a glorified cutting tool, stuck in the dirt, waiting for whatever idiot is going to pick me up next.
A sword. Really? That's all I am? Some sharp piece of metal that people use to hack things? Hell, I've seen better uses for a spoon.
This feels like a loop I've been in over a hundred times now, but I can't remember what's happened in the past.
Not that it matters. Not that I care. Every time I wake up, it's the same damn thing—new wielder, new set of hopes destroyed in a matter of minutes.
The only consistency is the dirt, the grass, and the occasional bug crawling by. They are the real winners here. I'd trade places with a bug any day.
I woke up here. Again. And now, I wait.
You know, now that I think of it, I do remember one of my wielders.
He was a fool. Barely made it ten minutes with me.
He was some sort of knight. Thought he could fight off an entire army of demons with me.
If I had lungs, or vocal cords, or even lips, for that matter, I would've laughed at how he died.
Skewered on a spear and roasted over an open fire pit.
He literally offered himself up to an army as a meal.
That's the problem. Not any random person can wield me and become super powerful. I don't make people God.
And yet, I don't think I've ever been picked up by a real warrior.
Most are inexperienced. Never held a sword in their entire lives. Others are just flat out stupid. The decisions they make never cease to surprise me.
I watch the clouds pass with my non-existent eyes, and sigh with boredom with my non-existent lungs.
Finally, someone came along.
Great, even better. This one's old.
He walked with a cane and had that distant look in his eyes like there was not a single thought going through his brain.
When he drew near, I prepared myself, waiting for him to grab the handle. But he just passed me right up.
Thank goodness for that. I would not make a good decoration next to that cane.
A shadow falls over me. Finally.
"Yes... yes! It's here!"
Oh great. That voice. That tone. This is already going downhill.
"The Blade of Destiny! The Final Edge! The Legendary Sword of the Forgotten King!"
He's listing names like he's ordering off a fantasy fast-food menu.
I feel myself being yanked from the ground. I could scream, but instead I just pray this idiot ends up accidentally stabbing himself.
"At last," he whispers dramatically, holding me aloft like he's presenting me to the heavens. "I, Reginald Stormborn Dragonfist the Third, accept your sacred power!"
Oh gods, what a name.
"We ride at dawn!"
We do not. We trip over a rock and fall into a ditch.
I give this guy four minutes max. It's always fun to bet on these things. Sometimes they'll surprise you. Sometimes they will drastically disappoint.
This one looks to be the latter.
His fashion sense is budget knight meets child's cosplay.
He mismatched armor of many different sizes, rusted and falling apart.
His cape looks like a red velvet curtain stolen from an inn, dusty and frayed at the edges.
The helmet is even worse. It's just an upside-down bucket with two holes poked in the front for his eyes.
"Now, we shall begin the training montage!" He shouted and dashed off toward the forest.
If it was a montage, this would've gone by so much faster. Instead, I am forced to spend a full hour with Reginald as he practices.
"SLASH! CLANG! Parry! Parry! Thrust! Parry again!"
He starts naming new techniques, such as Whirlwind, where he spins in a circle for a full minute before almost falling over with dizziness.
Finally, the sun begins to set, and Reginald starts to tire out.
Already, this guy has owned me for longer than most others. And that's because he's done absolutely nothing of consequence.
His biggest enemy so far has been a tree. And the tree won.
Reginald tries and fails multiple times to start a fire. Instead, he settles up against the base of the tree.
"You're amazing, sword. I almost forgot! You need a name. You shall henceforth be known as Soulpiercer: The Doom Cleaver of Eternal Vengeance!"
Kill me. Kill me now.
Not like I can actually die. No matter what happens, I always end up back in that field of grass.
After Reginald finally falls asleep, I can have my peace.
I sit there for a long while, enjoying every moment of silence.
The next day came, and I prepared myself for my wielder's imminent death.
Reginald, as it turned out, lived in a cozy cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom of Brenmir.
It was a village known mostly for producing turnips the size of a toddler and for its annual theater shows.
In this quaint prison, I remained.
"I'll call you Sir Chop," he said that spring, hanging me over the fireplace. "Or maybe Thorny. Yes! Sir Thorny. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"
I screamed into his dreams that night. He woke up murmuring something about oatmeal and kissed his cat on the head.
By Year Seven, I had accepted that Reginald would not be conquering any kingdoms.
He had, however, defeated a particularly aggressive mole infestation in his garden using me.
"You've still got it, Thorny," he chuckled one evening, wiping dirt from my blade. "Sharp as ever!"
I had tasted the blood of kings and demon spawn. Now? Earthworms.
He used my hilt to crush garlic. My blade to slice bread.
One particularly soul-scarring moment involved me being used to unclog his toilet.
Time passed.
He married a woman named Lora. She was kind, soft-spoken, and for some reason, fully supportive of his tendency to talk to a sword.
"Has Thorny been good today?" she would ask, ruffling my sheath like I was a misbehaving child.
Reginald would nod solemnly. "Bit moody. Think he wanted me to duel the tax collector."
They laughed.
I did not.
Year Fourteen. A traveling bandit tried to rob Reginald.
Finally. Finally.
Reginald reached for me.
Adrenaline flooded my ancient steel.
He held me aloft like a hero from a forgotten saga, eyes wide with terror, but also...focus.
Then he threw me.
At the bandit.
Like a damn boomerang.
I missed by a solid two feet, embedded myself in a tree, and spent the next half hour waiting to be taken down.
The bandit had run away in terror.
By Year Twenty-Five, Reginald had twin daughters. Tiny things, both obsessed with dressing me in flowers and pastel ribbons.
I have slain demons from hell.
He aged well. Strong bones, good humor, a heart that never seemed to dim.
At Year Thirty, he wrote a short story about "Thorny the Sword and the Lost Cupcake."
It was performed at the village theater to lukewarm applause.
At Year Forty, he grew a beard long enough to braid.
At Year Forty-Nine, he became mayor. His campaign slogan was: Vote Reginald. I'm Your Best Choice.
He won in a landslide.
The sword, me, was his ceremonial staff for the entire campaign.
He became a local legend.
Children asked to touch "the magic sword" for good luck.
One teenager licked my hilt on a dare. I'm still mentally recovering from that.
Reginald laughed with every wrinkle, cooked with every spice, and aged like warm bread.
There was peace in it.
A horrifying, maddening peace.
By Year Sixty-Four, Reginald began to slow.
His walks took longer. His voice rasped at the ends of sentences.
His hands trembled when he unsheathed me. Not for battle, of course, but to use me as a cane when he walked to the market.
And then one winter, I watched as he sat in front of the fire, eyes distant.
"I think I've done enough," he murmured.
Lora had passed years ago. The girls had families of their own. Reginald had no wars left to fight, no gardens left to tend.
He looked at me with a smile.
"You've been with me my whole life, haven't you?"
Yes.
He nodded, as if I'd spoken out loud.
"I hope I was good enough."
You were the worst.
But…you were also the only one who didn't see me as a tool of death.
He laid me gently across his lap and closed his eyes.
The fire burned low.
The wind blew in through the cracks of the windows.
And Reginald, fool, hero, poet, and a thorn in my soul's existence breathed his last.
I stayed with him for days. No one entered the house. The candle burned out. I sat there, unmoving, as the man who never listened to my warnings faded into the stillness of time.
The villagers buried him with honors.
And, to my absolute horror…with me.
Sealed in a casket beneath six feet of earth.
I stayed there for a while and eventually closed my non-existent eyes.
When my consciousness returned, I was back in the field, point first into the dirt.
And so, the cycle began again.