A civil war rages in Talestor. A boy from a forest chases after his friend, leaving the safety of the trees and thrusting himself into a world he can barely comprehend, happening upon a weary sword whose only wish is for peace. A group of slaves are...
Nevay had slept with his wielders before, in the sense of the euphemism. It had never been a pleasant experience and only served to make things awkward or awful. Seeing as how his wielder basically had control over everything he did, maintaining a healthy love life with them was virtually impossible.
He'd once had a wielder who made Nevay into something that could only be described as a personal slave. It was not fun.
In the old days, when he was together with Wentarion, they had essentially been each other's wielders. After a lifetime of kind but incompetent, neglective, unpleasant, or just downright abusive wielders, they were ready to give up the life of a sword and just be people. Unfortunately a fatal design flaw they had was the inability to function without a wielder, installed precisely to keep them from striking off on their own. They were great swords, and even better combatants; their makers didn't want them to gain any independence so they would be safe from their own creations.
Nevay could have told them right then and there that if they treated him correctly, that would've been the end of it. He would have been loyal to his makers forever, if only they had shown him the basic kindnesses all beings showed to those they considered equals.
Alas, his makers were bigoted and slightly cruel.
Nevay knew about this design flaw. He'd known about it when he and Wentarion ran away. He knew it would end in their eventual deaths, but what good was life if he was to be shuttled from wielder to wielder, never knowing what he would have to endure at their hands? He was, after all, created to be the perfect servant. Some people had unconventional, and/or horrid, definitions of that concept.
Often he cursed that he'd been born in a time of peace. No good man or woman took up arms outside of war.
Except for, apparently, Celestar.
Well, there actually was a war going on. Celestar just wasn't part of it. Yet.
Nevay supposed his current wielder didn't count.
His mind wandered back to Wentarion.
Wentarion was tall and strong. He had the build of a swordsman, and what a swordsman he was! He could've been a wonderful wielder, if only he wasn't a blade. He was a sword much like Nevay, only his blade was black instead of white opal, and the jewel on his pommel was a dark star sapphire instead of a bright diamond. He had a ribald sense of humour and no magic of which to speak. He was large and muscled, fast and powerful. He was the exact opposite of Nevay in all the things that counted.
They were best friends by the end of their first meeting.
Whenever they were allowed free time, they spent it in each other's presence, talking and laughing and making Nevay blush bright red, scandalized, at Wentarion's awful dirty jokes. Tickle fights were a common bonding event, second only to Nevay chasing Wentarion around with a large book every time he said something stupid (which was all the time). Wen would pick him up, separate the tome from his fingers, and throw him into a nearby body of water. Nevay would go kicking and screaming the whole way, but when he emerged he would be grinning, and often Wentarion found himself hurtling head over heels into the waves, yanked down by his friend's surprisingly strong tugs.
Not that Nevay was particularly strong. It was just surprising the amount of force he could muster when the occasion called for it.
Nevay had a deep love for magic and knowledge of the arcane. Well, it was more like he had a deep love for all knowledge, and specialized in that area because it was useful. Often he would be buried up to his neck in tomes and grimoires, whatever he could get his hands on. Upon these occasions Wentarion would come and pull him into his lap, settling against a the headboard of a bed or a wall or a tree. Many times he would fall asleep right there, tired of reading over his friend's shoulder, and Nevay would follow him into dreamland after he was done.
As anyone could see, Wentarion was not of the intellectual persuasion. But he seemed to enjoy listening to Nevay's excited rambling about the properties of herb number sixty-three in a row, or his discourse on the consequences of trying to reanimate corpses by attempting to bring back part of the person's soul. (It really is a bad idea; Nevay recommends not trying it.)
Deep, rhythmic breathing swelled and compressed the torso behind him. Celestar, probably without realizing it, had wrapped his arms around Nevay, drawing him close to his chest.
It seemed that this new wielder he had was naturally protective of the people close to him. From what Nevay could gather, he'd left everything he'd ever known to rescue his friend, who may or may not even be in trouble. Then there was the whole thing with saving Kaia and hers. Nevay didn't think he'd ever met anyone this instinctively benevolent before. Wentarion had tried to protect him, but never before had he extended this to complete strangers.
The sickness that struck them whenever they were without wielders could be delayed if Wentarion and Nevay fought with each other in their hands. But it wasn't enough to stave off the illness forever. Nevay, physically weaker, succumbed to it first. Wentarion was soon to follow.
Nevay was woken by his next wielder about twenty years after he fell under the sickness, Wen nowhere to be seen. What would follow was the worst three months of his life, after which he escaped and ran into the forest, only to be snatched up by a statue's hand and held aloft to the sky. There he had lain until Celestar picked him up.
Now he was here, and he had to find Wentarion.
"But not before you get a good night's rest," Celestar whispered behind him, and that was when Nevay realized he had spoken aloud.
He took his wielder's advice, and, now sufficiently warm, let the winds of the dreaming world carry him away to the land of his own imagination.
Nevay rather enjoyed the land of his own imagination. It made the difference between natural sleep in his body and the unconsciousness attained in his sword form all so evident.
Also, it had dragons.
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Author's Note: Welcome back to Aer'denna, everybody! Hope you guys enjoyed this one. If you did, leave a vote or a comment and let me know! Happy reading, y'all.
