Finding The Sword

Part One: I will not die with the pears.

It had been seventeen years since Knight Sarthin fled from Master Marré.

Sitting with his back to the decaying bark of an old tree, he drowned his screaming thirst with the juice of an unripe pear. He did not feel the sting as he crushed the sour fruit within his bleeding palm. As he grabbed another from the ground and ate greedily, nectar covering his mouth in a thin film, Sarthin couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Is it an honourable death,” he thought, “To die alone among pears?”

His side ached.

He looked to what once was his right arm; now a warped, cauterized stump, and his morbid grin quickly left him. Sarthin raised his left hand to the sun to examine its position. The beams hit the dried and blackened stains across his fingers, brightening the blood caked around them. He stood shakily but determined. Two short swords of different make, worn from many a slash, dangled at his hips. He would not die here, for his mission was incomplete, and Master Marré still shared in breathing the brisk morning air. She was still in these woods, and he would find her.

Sarthin scanned the thick bracken of branches and leaves. It all looked the same, and there was no obvious path forward. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes to think.

After a moment, he opened them with a start and made east without hesitation. Sarthin’s stride was a limp of terrifying fervour. He was like a zombie, given life only through an unending hunger for revenge that far outweighed the pain of his wounds. It did, however, make traversing the entangled woods a nearly insurmountable task, and, after failing to claw away at some vines, Sarthin let out a blood-curdling scream, fell to the ground, and wept.

Part Two: I will not die in this cold.

Shielded from view by a thicket of vines, Master Marré warmed her shivering hands with weak breath. Her robes were wet and matted, offering little protection from the biting winds that stung her bones. “This is it,” she thought, “I’m going to freeze.”

That was, until she heard Sarthin’s scream from the far distance, and her will returned like fire.

Not a moment passed before Master Marré was fleeing into the undergrowth. As she ran and the brush cut at her face, it was her mind that was torn to pieces. 

Cutting off Sarthin’s arm was the hardest thing she ever had to do. Deep within her heart, she still held hope that he would one day understand why she was without choice, but Master Marré was no fool, and she knew better. The deep and oozing darkness that plagued Sarthin could not be expelled, and the only thing she believed she could do that day was to take the arm he used to fight. She had hoped that he would be able to leave the life of a warrior of his own volition before, but all that got her was a forsaken friend and pupil. Now, she knew better. Now, it would not be his arm.

Marré halted suddenly.

“No,” she thought, “I would never… No more running.”

Another one of Sarthin’s screams rang out. She turned towards it. 

“I will not die in this cold. But neither will he.”

“Sarthin!” She screamed to the trees. There was no reply, but she knew she was heard.

Part Three: I will not die before you.

The echo of Marré’s voice sent a shiver down Sarthin’s spine. He froze.

It was not far away. His stump began to sting.

Sarthin broke into a sprint towards the sound. Any pain that once gnawed from behind his anger ceased to exist, and rage swelled throughout every gap and pore.

“She’s taunting me,” was all he could think, “She thinks I’m a fool.”

His stride became quicker. “I will not die before you.”

Sarthin’s mission was greater than himself. Master Marré was a plague to the land. She was once his master, his guardian, his friend. Now, she was a murderer, a liar, and a dead woman walking. Visions of the monastery in Sicily flooded back to Sarthin as he ran. He thought of meditation and how Marré would always scold him for opening his eyes intermittently. He thought of Danilo, his dear friend who worked near the temple, and how they would sneak out to explore the city after dark.

He thought of the fateful night when he went to Master Marré to properly thank her for saving him from the opium trade, only to see her smiling with her longsword plunged into Danilo’s chest. He thought of the shame he carried for seventeen agonizing years after fleeing, and how the object of his hatred was mere steps away.

This thought was short-lived, however, overtaken by the sight of Master Marré before him.

Part Four: We will not die in pain.

Sarthin was frozen. Not in fear or anger, but sheer focus. Marré examined him carefully, waiting for him to make the first move. He would not.

“You’ve grown,” Master Marré said with careful kindness, “You were the smallest of your class, do you remember?--”

“You demon,” Sarthin sneered. Marré’s warmth left her. “You would speak to me of my class? After what you’ve done?” 

Sarthin unhooked one of his short swords to throw at her feet. Her eyes darted down towards it, but only for a moment.

“There’s much you do not know about that day. About your peers, Sarthin,” Marré said calmly. Her gaze was kind, yet sharp as her blade. “Please, hear me out.”

Sarthin scoffed. Marré moved her feet to a stronger stance.

“I’m talking about my arm, you wretch,” he said before spitting at the ground.

Marre frowned, “It was for your own good. The path of the blade will only bring you anguish.”

Sarthin’s face soured with a deep, festering coldness. Marré's hand flinched over her hilt. The sight of her uneasy movement broke his fester slightly.

“And that was your choice to make?” Sarthin said, assuming a stronger stance to match. Though he tried to stifle his emotions, Sarthin's voice cracked all the same.

“Like the one you made to murder Danilo?”

Marré could not hide her grief. “Danilo was an assassin, sent to learn our ways and kill me at the right moment. If you saw his blade before fleeing, you would have seen it was Sicilian black iron.”

“Lies!” Sarthin bellowed. “You lie, he was my friend! They, were my friends!”

“He was a soldier! Being friends with you was only to make his cover more believable.”

“No, no, you knew he was doubtful of our code… So you saw fit to decide his fate.” Sarthin raised his stump to her. “Much like you saw fit to decide mine.”

Marré hung her head. Her voice was shaky with regret, but she gathered herself.

“I am so, so sorry, Sarthin… But it was necessary to stop you from hurting yourself or anyone else.” She pondered him for a long, long time. Her next words were quiet.

“If I saw you fall to their evil while I was living, then I would not be able to go on--”

Though almost entranced by her wicked compassion, Sarthin was immediately taken aback.

“No… No! You don't get to – No!”

 He gawked at her until his disbelief evolved into laughter. “You selfish, arrogant...”

Marré’s eyes widened. Sarthin moved his stance to put his right shoulder behind him as he drew his other short sword. The sun ray that reflected off the onyx-black metal was turned to a brittle beam. Marré was horrified.

She whispered under her breath, “Black Iron?”

“It seems you won’t be going on. You really didn’t think the first thing I did after that day was join them? You might as well have recommended me yourself.”

Tears welled in Marré’s eyes. Her tone was deep. “I… I have failed you, Sarthin.”

Sarthin looked away for but a moment. “You never did right by me anyway.”

Marré seized the opportunity to dash at him. He propelled himself with his backfoot to match her advance. They clashed blades, leaning on the weight of each other's blocks.

The battle was long and grueling.

Sarthin’s form was raw yet elegant; powerful and precise bursts of jabs slowly chipping away at Marré’s last-second defenses.

Hers was practiced, but wild, as she leapt and somersaulted around the trees, propelling herself off them for terrifyingly strong blows against Sarthin’s parries, only to then catch herself and begin a careful duelist's defence in wait of the next opportunity. Among their near-lethal blows and intrepid techniques, the fight was a dance that begged for finality.

For two hours, the hums and screeches of sparking iron filled the calm and quiet woods.

They were somewhat evenly matched, but Marré was ever-so-slightly gaining ground against Sarthin. At the height of the second hour, Sarthin attempted to propel himself off a pile of leaves.

The split-second mistake was enough for Marré to land a blow across his chest.

Sarthin fell to the ground, gasping. Marré put her blade to his neck.

“Stand down. That wound won't kill you.”

Sarthin stared into her soul and spoke through gasps. “Do it. You’ve regretted not… I know.”

Marré examined him. She sheathed her sword to sit with crisscrossed legs in front of him.

“No. We will not die in pain.”

Part Five: Finding The Sword

Sarthin raised his nose at her as he vied for breath. Marré sat patiently, looking around the woods like a bored toddler. Every thirty-seconds or so, she would meet Sarthin's vengeful gaze, and he would growl at her. After the fourth round of this, she sighed and spoke.

“He was an assassin, you know.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean, I wasn’t even going to kill him. It was self-defence.”

Sarthin raised his nose at her. His lip was quivering. Marré waited.

“You were smiling, Marré... You were smiling.” Sarthin said, failing the fight with his tears.

Her eyes glazed over. Sarthin’s gasps became the only sound among the forest’s noise.

“Yes… Yes, I was.”

Sarthin was filled with angry confusion, “What… Why?”

Marré could not meet his gaze.

“Because I knew it would gain me favour, and I thought I had succeeded at protecting you all.” She looked at him with the warmest smile she could muster. 

 “I can see now that I was very, very wrong.”

Sarthin sat silent. Marré looked to the soil. “You are right, Sarthin. I’ve done many things that I regret throughout my life, but training you – and, sparing you, were not one of them.”

Marré looked up to the canopy of trees above her. She closed her eyes to let a beam of sun bathe her face. 

“I suppose this is as good a place as any.” She looked to him with a cheeky grin.

Marré shrugged, “Kill me.”

Sarthin scoffed.

“I’m serious. I don’t know any other way to teach you revenge is the wrong path, other than to allow you to walk it.”

Sarthin narrowed his eyes at her.

Marré looked at Sarthin’s sword in his hand, “I have only one condition.” She lazily wrestled it from him and threw it as far as she could into the woods.

Sarthin watched it fly. “I liked that sword.”

Marré unhooked her blade from her waist and held it out, “You use mine.”

Sarthin examined the sword, then her. She nodded at him. He struggled to stand up, holding his chest. She tried to help him, but he pushed her away. Marré offered him the the hilt of her blade, still in its sheath.

They stood face to face; Sarthin’s cold and hurt, Marré’s kind and regretful.

“Live well, Sarthin. I hope you find that revenge isn’t–”

Sarthin unsheathed the blade with it still in her hands and plunged it into her heart. She fell to the forest floor and was dead not a moment later. His breath was quick and full of adrenaline. Each heave sent waves of searing pulses towards his stump. He watched her matted robes slowly redden as he calmed his breathing.

He then staggered towards the brush. Finding his sword would take all evening.

End.