A Choice of Swords
Flash Fiction
Submission for Iron Age Media's prompt: The Fable.
Upon immersing himself in the world at an adult age, the boy turned man reconciled his feelings with the architecture of his world, his civilization. Poignant standards being what they are, though not without the expectation of building up to a substantial goal, the man had already made his choice twelve years ago.
On the sixth birthday of every male, they are to be brought to the temple of their Icon, whereby they would be studied, queried, exhorted, excoriated, and ameliorated by the Icon which they must defeat twelve years thereafter, the time they come of age.
So it was demanded of the civilization by Godly forces, so must it be, the constant trade of souls between Icons and Knights, this was the fate of their world.
This cannot be exacted without making the choice, however. The choice of sword with which the Knight must slay what is both their guardian angel, and their beastly adversary.
And so it was on the sixth birthday of the one man who would slay his Icon, in a sea of men who are constantly expected to fail by their Icons, because they always have, and always did, a great reptile which imparted to this man great knowledge of his duty, and the three swords he must decide between, witnessed a choice being made, not unlike countless others.
A gangly singular claw taps an image of a beautiful curved blade beyond additional worldly description. The gold letters emblazoned along the thick vaguely material cross guard spelled out ancient letters whose meaning would remain a mystery to the boy. The organism which would later test the boy in mortal combat stared at him with an inquisitor’s fixation. Would this golden ratio of blades be his choice?
The boy frowned and twirled frantically at the page’s edge, not at all interested in the implications of the aesthetic marvel that was the vainglorious weapon, that type of vanity which disgusted the boy for reasons unknown.
The protector of his potential, yet future adversary just the same effervescently pointed to the following sword, one that was not anywhere near as ornate, but straight, twice as broad with a red velvet hilt, its size fit and sturdy enough to eclipse a stack of bull’s horns, but that was the icon of another’s destiny.
The boy pondered the meaning of this blade, whose letters lay across the blade itself in tenebrous script, however he quickly lost his attention, his neutral expression waxing a mind of impatient building block thoughts, a wonder which painted a number of possible pictures, which illustrated what the one would look like, indistinguishable from a merchant’s catalog of garish goods befitting a noble, the boy turned the page once more with enthusiasm, and he immediately became enamored with what he saw.
His Icon remained still, regarding the tome with but a fluid ogle which bounced between it and the boy.
The boy would be the one to point at the figure this time, looking up at the creature of fate beside him with mercurial intensity. This blade bore a jagged hilt, outright demanding the blood of the wielder in order to exercise its capabilities. The blade was blue, bearing a short yet precise stature, and letters written on the pommel in a spiral, which the boy read aloud as “TRIAL”.
Twelve years later, and there the man now stood in twilight, lapis lazuli blade in hand dripping bloody, standing over the corpse of his conquest, that which bore the duality of ally and enemy.
And so did the man reign over his Icon, the first of all Icons to be vanquished. The magic of the bond carrying him to powerful rule, the first among of men who procured success from the jaws of invincibility, would now begin chipping away at the boundaries of this order which persisted for millennia.
One by one, each of the other Icons would fall, but not at the hands of the men who were fated to lose against them. Rather, it would be by the blade which bore the color of the world’s source of daylight that they would see their defeat.
Someday, each of these Icons thought immortal just so, beneath the blade of the first who trounced one of their own, would begin to ponder:
“Why did we not have the same opportunity to choose as they did?”