The Scarred Sword and the Shattered Stone

A young female warrior walked along a shore. A shore patterned by the water, shells,and wind. By the broken  pieces of glass from the bottles of deadly alcohol thrown overboard by pirates. By the foam of the waves that refused to stop churning. The woman came to a halt at a line of archers and blade masters. They broke apart, allowing her to see and pass through. There laid a crumbled body of a once handsome man. Realizing who it was, the girl ran to him. Seeing he was far from being able to help, his wounds far from healing, the woman swore at the top of her lungs and flung the holy sword from her hand. It flew past all the others and impelled itself into the stone of the mountain beside them. The woman then dropped to her knees, whispering, "Brother, Brother. I am sorry." The man reached out a bloodied hand to her fragile face and whispered hoarsely, "Sister, no need to be sorry. I am just glad I got to see you again. You have become an excellent fighter and a beautiful woman. I couldn't be more proud that you're my family." The crimson hand begin to limply leave the soft flesh of her face before she caught it shakily and pressed it close to her cheek. "Brother," she started to cry, "I am sorry I wasn't there when you married. I am sorry I wasn't there when mother died, when father died. I am sorry I wasn't there to watch the ivy along the gate grow. I am sorry I wasn't there to see the flowers you painted or the battles you won. I am sorry I didn't come back until yesterday. But I am most sorry that it wasn't me. That it wasn't someone more deserving. That you weren't deserving while I was. While I am." The woman continued to weep into the hollow of the brother's hand. She finally let it fall weakly. The rouge stained hand slapped the cold metal of the worn chest plate that failed to protect him. The sudden sound caused the sister to jump and continue to weep quietly. The quiet tears slowly turned into loud, choking sobs as the girl fell forward and hit his body with a soft thud. The sound of the waves churning continued to mix with the painful sobs as the pale sky of dawn started to break its way past the purple colored sky.




A boy at the age of thirteen walked along a shore. A shore patterned by the water, shells, and wind. By the broken pieces of glass from the bottles of deadly alcohol thrown overboard by the sailors that set out to fish every morning. By the foam from the soft splashes caused by the ghosts of the once great waves. The boy came to a stop. There was no line of warriors to step aside for him, nor any body awaiting his arrival. Instead, the boy continued to walk along the shore then turn and walk up the beach. He came to the side of the gray colored mountain that was covered with cracks and splits from the years gone by. There, overgrown with ivy and small flowers, stayed a scarred sword in the shattered stone. The child walked up to it and whispered the words that echoed through the blemished weapon every morning at the paling of dawn. "I am sorry, Grandfather. And I am sorry, The Sword of Shattered Stone."