The Sword Requiem

I've been traveling for untold centuries. Passed through countless ruined what once was cities, dragged my feet across the empty fields where the people were its last harvest and death was it's last produce.

Lost myself numerous times, survived through many winters. Living is what I am but not what I do. I found myself in one of the sanctuaries on a coast of northern Europe, few years must've already passed since my last encounter. After the -more or less- first hundred years of travel and clash: destinations became people more than places.

Now under the light of the dawn standing in front of a forest of stones on a soil where it had forgotten the presence of a living. Each and every one of them is unmarked by the sun's cold rays reminding a memory of a fallen wanderer.

Feelings. Feelings rushing in. Feelings that I convinced that were long gone, coming back to surface, blooming like a tumbleweed quenching it's long awaited thirst.

I don't remember when my eyes became deprived of dropping a tear. But I digress, my apologies fellow wanderers for what I am feeling that is not sadness nor grief, its the relief of the reminder that I am still human. A trait that I would've traded all my techniques to acquire if I wasn't.

I stood up and regained my composure. Started to concentrate, feels as natural as breathing. I let my feelings go numb, thats where they tend to go, the same wind surrounding my body started to feel stronger, reminded me whispering the lyrics of the song that I had long forgotten. Felt the soil pulsating with vibrations from deep under, rippling under my feet and across the field as its synchronising with my own heart beat.

I gently placed my right hand to the hilt of my blade that is on my left side. The ripples on the ground started to emerge faster and faster, as their amplitude decreased. The hilt was attracting the wind like a vortex, a gentle cold breeze started to heat up spiraling around the sheath.

I grabbed the hilt. As I felt the blade forming inside the hilt with each pulse, a faint metallic sound started to matched its frequency.

I slowly started to unsheath my blade, the wind started to rush in with a high pitched howl. Blade followed a straight line to its freedom. Unless careful sharp enough to cut the sky itself and with a mirror like surface makes it almost invisible to a normal eye. Now soaring in the sky.

I execute a ten step movement. Slashes following stabs, from parry to thrust. Wind gathering from around focusing on the tip of my blade.

Ripples traveling from the ground to my hand. I tightened my grip as the runes on the hilt started to appear. Then the wind stopped, there was no-sound. The sound of the waves hitting the cliff were no more. I could only hear my own breath leaving my lungs.

Along the blade, a wave of energy in a flame like color started to spread wave by wave, like an incense filling the environment. The color of the waves on the air started to turn into a vivid turquoise, each wave carrying the compressed voice of the winds. Singing a profound song about the souls of each fallen wanderer. Each wave reflecting the stories of the fallen on to its own grave, reminding them who they once were, telling the fables about their travels and sacrifices.

The sword song. The pinnacle of the blade mastery. Respecting their eternal rest.

I loosened my grip. The sword song slowly dispersed around. I stop the chanting.

Sounds. Sounds of the waves hitting the shore. The wind that is now free. The rays of the sun entering my eyes bringing me back. I sheath my blade. I started walking away.