UM(1) Creative Writing Club (Activity)

Aung Kyi

I was displayed inside a pristine glass case of a well-known historical museum.

Being trapped inside a place like this, it was only natural that I had lost count of days, months and even years.

Without my owner, the days seemed to idly pass by.

But the neatly-carved cursive etching on my shiny golden plaque announced the spectators who come to look at me that I was over 580 years old.

Has it been that long?

My body that once victoriously gleamed metal in the burning heat of the war was now corroded with rust to the point that can't be reserved. All that remained to show the royalty and high social status I once possessed was the symbolic flower carving on my brass handle.

Now, people from all over the world come to admire me and the seemingly dignified history of my proprietor.

I looked at the painting in front of me. It was a man in the midst of a battle, his face roaring with energy and determination. In his left hand was his war horse's reins, a destrier called Herveus and in his right... was me, partner in crime of the mighty Knight Fredericus.

Yes, I am a battle-sword.

I have always been one.

From the moment the royal bladesmith forged the sword, I had come into existence. The other swords told me I was lucky to be a Knight's sword where they were greatly honoured as much as the Knight. All my life, even till now, people come to pay tribute or respect to the hero... along with his inanimate life-and-death partner who fought remarkably in thousands of battles together.

Back then, poets and writers praised the Knight for his bravery and me for never failing him. Fredericus loved me too for I was his lifelong partner in combat.

But the feeling wasn't mutual.

I hated my owner, no matter how much praise he got in the past and the future, he was a dick and will always be one. History portrayed him a hero, the savior of the land, maidens' every-lasting dream but who would know what he was... better than I?

People only knew what they were being shown.

From killing his own father in his sleep for his advantages to killing young men he fell in love with to cover up for his sexuality, I was there all along. He used me in all of his dirty work as well so I was the object. Their blood is literally on my hands.

It wasn't right. Killing innocent people wasn't in my nature but it was in the hands of my holder.

People loved him. But I despised him. I knew what he was after all.

I hated the smell of fresh blood staining my body, the flesh of my owner's mortal enemies and the whole concept of war. And all that ended when my body pierced through Fredericus's heart in the mere grips of a traitor.

People talked for days. I didn't mind. They locked me up and said that I was bad luck. It was dark and cold in the confined space they put me in. But as long as I wasn't doing what I was born to do, which was to be a weapon, I was okay.

For I, the fearsome battleword, only wanted to be a quill.

They loved me. They look at me in awe. They admired my beauty that I was given.

But they never asked me what I wanted to be.