Ficlets

It was the sword of kings.

The mightiest blade ever created.

Crafted from the deep steel, made by the dwarves from the iron found only at the roots of the most ancient mountains. Tempered in the fire of the great wurms, blessed by the high priests of the elder gods.

Sharpened with the diamond knife of the mother-witch, and anointed with the blood of saints.

Cleaver of cities, reaver of rogues, slayer of serpents.

Used by Gilgamesh in days of old. Known as Gram, Hrunting, Caladbolg, Excalibur.

Countless warriors fell beneath its wrath. Countless more died to possess it.

Lost to the ages time and time again, always to return, ever sharp, ever ready.

Finally, it passed to me.

And as I sit here, admiring its unearthly sheen, sucking my finger which I carelessly slid along its edge, I wonder.

I wonder what its former masters would have thought of me, my world, and my time. What would they say to the problems of today?

Have we preserved that heroic spirit, or is it lost forever?

Is it dishwasher safe?