A Perfect Sword
I struggle to start this entry, but I would be remiss if I did not chronicle things I feared in this journal as well, for fear is no small part of being the proprietor of this establishment. It is part of the context that I am trying to capture, so anyone who seeks to understand my role and what the Floating Oak embodies understands it as fully as possible.
I suppose that brings me rather roundabout to the gate of this entry - context for this accursed thing.
Thousands of years ago, there were two kingdoms whose names are lost to time, as is common in history. The two kingdoms were at war, as kingdoms commonly are. As they commonly do, they sought an end to it, by peace or by violence. And as commonly happens, there was no possible compromise in sight.
A prince from one of these kingdoms made a journey for a weapon that could end it, and found a very uncommon blacksmith.
She was tiny, bent with age, and crotchety. She lived at the top of a great, treacherous mountain. When the prince asked her for a sword that could end this war, she spit at his feet and told him to ask for something better. The prince, offended but desperate, asked for The Perfect Sword. The smith rolled her eyes and told him to wait at the base of the mountain for three days before returning.
Waiting in the foothills, the prince heard a great racket, a storm of ringing blows. It began at dawn, and did not end until after three dusks. There was howling of wind from deep in the bowels of the mountain, and great gouts of flame which scorched the clouds and melted the peak’s icy shoulders.
When the third dusk had passed, the storm of the forge ceased, and the prince climbed the slopes once again. As he stood in front of the old woman’s shack, she wordlessly beckoned him inside with her leathery hand, and sat him on the floor. On a table before him she placed the naked blade. To the prince’s eye, the ravenous beauty it glinted with made his hair stand on end and set his heart aflutter with fear. The peak was burning hot from the forge, and icy cold from the wind, and he felt both at once.
“I have made you the perfect sword. I wrested it from the aether and beat it until mortal hands could hold it. It hates that I did that.” The ancient woman sat silently, eyeing the prince, who was frozen like a beast of prey. “You asked an extraordinarily stupid thing of me, and have received extraordinarily stupid results.” The quiet stretched between them again, cut only by the sword’s keening edge. “Before you can take this extraordinarily stupid thing, I will ask for my payment - the Correct answer to a Question.” The prince finally tore his gaze away from the terror in front of him and looked into the old woman’s eyes as her voice grated out the question.
“What is the purpose of a sword?”
The young fool was dumbstruck. He gawped and groped for an answer he thought was suitable. “To protect the innocent?”
The old woman’s contempt was nearly as sharp as the thing on the table. “A sword doesn’t protect the innocent - the hand that swings it does. What is the purpose of a sword?”
Frowning and floundering, he once again sought for something he saw as Correct. “To defeat my foes?”
“No. To defeat a foe is to bring your abilities and wits to bear against them. A sword does none of that. One more chance, idiot princeling, before I cast you from my mountain for squandering my time and bury my efforts where no one will ever find them. Hurry. What is the purpose of a sword?”
Spluttering at both the urgency and disrespect, the prince blurted “To kill!”
At those words, the tension in the room fell slack, and the sword gleamed more with glee than with hate. It was finally possible to look at anything other than the hungry edge - from the leather and bone grip, to the dark iron crossguard, to the milky white jewel in the pommel, to the gentle curves of the leaf-shaped blade itself.
“Remember that - you asked for the Perfect Sword. I made you the Perfect Sword. Its Perfect Purpose is to Kill - nothing more, nothing less. It has no magic about it. It does not burst into flame or summon the winds. It does not drink blood to fuel forbidden enchantments. Its only interaction with blood is as a tool to spill it. You would do well to remember that. When this blade is drawn from its scabbard, it is only to kill. This is First Lesson of the Sword. Now, get off my mountain, and if you ever come back, I will throw you from the peak myself.”
Wordlessly, the prince took up the sword and fled from this tiny, bent old creature who could conjure forth that which the gods themselves would not. He fled to his home, and all the way wondered at his stupidity, and how a single, ordinary, extraordinary sword could possibly end an entire bloody war. He pondered her words - about the purpose of a sword, and how it is only a tool to be wielded. He hatched a stupid plan.
He challenged the enemy’s champions to single combat. If he could defeat them all, the war would end. When he drew the blade, they hesitated, seeing the milky white pommel turn crimson, and they felt the dire edge before it even moved for them. The sword served him well, but in the end was only a tool. It was fatigue and foolish honor that made the sides accept this as an end, but no real satisfaction was found for either side. Unrest and resentment remained between the rival kingdoms, and no amount of killing is ever the answer to that.
The prince, however, was changed. The lesson he took from the old blacksmith of the mountain cut deep into his soul. As he had heirs, he passed down first the lesson then the blade, and so it was until one day, a descendant deep in his cups drew the sword as a threat. He felt the finely balanced weight of the sword in his hand in earnest as he realized he could not place it back in its scabbard. A mere day later, the blade found its way to his beloved cousin’s heart.
The First Lesson of the Sword became both a shame and a burden on the lineage afterwards, and this is the last I could find of it for centuries. It does, after an indeterminate amount of time, resurface in the hands of a collector, then a swordmasters, a few gloryhounds, another collector, and a few others. They used it to fell foes thought invincible, carve through hordes, overthrow tyrants and beloved leaders alike. It stays with its wielders until they are taught the hard way what a sword is for. Always, always must the sword kill when drawn. It is a sword perfect for its purpose. The only jagged ledges it leaves are the wounds of grief when wielded recklessly. It cares not who it kills, for it is but a tool.
A tool that now sits in my museum. I leave it on display, in a glass case I had specifically enchanted to open only for the caretaker of the Floating Oak. On this case, warnings are etched on every side in many languages, telling that it will kill someone every time it is drawn - ensure that you can bear that burden and take on that responsibility, or the decision of who will be made for you. I have it sealed in its scabbard, chained and cemented in.
I can find no magic on it, which is not a wholly unique phenomenon. The story of this sword is simply shaped by the hearts that grasp its handle. The tool is dangerous, but its lesson stands - use your tools with responsibility, deliberation, and always understand what the cost of may be.