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Lost Son

Story by Raziel Characters are © Lucaslunar

There was nothing but pitch blackness around. Nothing but an endless, featureless void that surrounded them. There was nothing to anchor oneself to, nothing to use as a reference, and yet there was a sense, however faint, of movement. The despite the complete absence of light, it could still see its master, as if he possessed some form of luminescence. His black fur was a match for the void and it seemed to sway gently in a breeze, as did his mane of dark blue, despite no breeze being present at all. His multiple tails were motionless and his wings extended uselessly from his back as the tips were played with by air currents that weren't there. What had led them to this apparently forsaken place? A trap? Death in a battle now unremembered? How long had they been there? Was this the first time that this line of thought was followed or had an eternity in a lightless nothing devastated any measure of sanity and consistent memory?

Memories were all that stirred; the heat of a furnace, the clang of metal on metal, the wheeze of bellows and the hiss of burning coal. It remembered its birth by fire well. Unimaginable heat interspersed with hammer blows giving it shape. An edge formed, a tip was carefully given shape. The loud hissing of water instantly turning to vapour from touching its red-hot surface. Then there was the grinding, a shower of sparks giving it that killing edge and finally being polished to a gleam that would soon mean the death of many who would cross whoever would wield him. And yet the work wasn't done. The creator placed it on an anvil of a different kind and once again set to work. There were drawings and old, dusty tomes. An intricately detailed altar of pitch-black obsidian. The inscribing began and runes were permanently engraved in the blade to a constant drone of incantations, one after the other until the markings stretched from crossguard to the tip. A name was whispered as the final rune was set; Aisoku.

Many blades in the world never see a fight. Instead, they were damned to simply hang uselessly on a belt or wall as little more than an attractive trinket without practical use. This wouldn't be Aisoku's fate. A blade like this not only deserves to be used, but needs to be fully tempered in blood and the heat of conflict. It was then that the master appeared. Aisoku remembered how his creator sometimes whispered the name of 'Eclipse'. Even then it was clear he was someone worthy of wielding a weapon of such outstanding lethality. It wasn't just an idle creation by someone with nothing better to do, who did work because they could. It was a gift from a father to a son. The very first time that his new master took him up and gripped the handle told it that life was about to truly begin; in the ownership of someone who could appreciate what such a unique piece could offer him, of someone who would put it to good use.

Memories of many fights drifted up from the darkness, as if triggered by the reverie. More likely, it was simply because it was the only thing it could latch on to in the void. There was the sound of wind howling over the flat of its blade, seeking that killing stroke. Juddering impacts on armour or shields that would only delay the inevitable against a weapon that was imbued with forces that would never allow it to lose its razor's edge even as it cleaved through the hardest steel. Many fights would be over too soon - Eclipse much too skilled for the opponents that presented themselves. Many fancied themselves true warriors, but instead proved to be little more than annoyances with big mouths that froze up the moment the fight started. No, Aisoku preferred the memories of the real challenges, where blade met blade and his wielder would have the time to get his blood pumping. Opponents who understood that the fight was not only about the weapon, but about using all means necessary. Many a helmet had been dented by its pommel, many a kick or off-hand jab letting him gain an opening that would allow Aisoku to drink deep an instant later. Thrusts, swings and parries following one other in a whirlwind of motion until one was too slow, or made the wrong move.

For all his martial prowess, even the master made mistakes sometimes, but never ones that cost him his life. Sometimes steel would pierce his skin, but he would just smile and keep up the attack. Enemies often faltered or slowed when their blood was spilled, fights being over the moment he could feel the heat of their life stick to his surface after a masterful swing. Not Eclipse. Sometimes, when a truly worthy match was met, it wasn't just the opponent's blood that wetted his blade. Runnels of red would pass through his midnight fur following the path of least resistance. Yet he never stopped moving, even as the blood slicked his grip, dripped from the crossguard and covered the hilt. His swings would send his own life spilling and splashing around in almost geometric patterns. He never stopped moving.

How unlike now, floating in this abyss it seemed like the only movement was caused by that accursed breeze that still seemed to exist for master's fur alone. Even his chest, often heaving with excitement or exertion, seemed deathly still. His body also seemed unmarred by anything. What did that mean? A fight somehow lost before the master was injured? Impossible; he would sooner give up breathing than somehow stopping a fight before his own blood had been spilt. In fact, it realised how clean its own surfaces were. Unthinkable that Eclipse would somehow lose without at least piercing flesh.

How often had it been necessary that the master had to cover himself in bandages? Deep crimson leaking through white fabric in growing stains. The flickering, yellow light of a campfire had often reminded Aisoku of the smithy where it was created, while Eclipse used its well-polished surface to examine his wounds with great interest. Sometimes he laughed as he recalled a particularly well-placed attack that had nicked him. Especially worthy ones enticed a different kind of laugh from him, like one of pleasure as the blood still leaked from the cuts.

Was that something there? A sight, a sound? A speck of something other than unending darkness? Nothing, they still floated here in this...nothing. Or yet, there was, and if it had blood to chill, it would have happened now. He could feel the master's reassuring grip loosen, falter even. Why? Why now?

His grip had always been so sure and powerful. It had been a constant in existence that Eclipse would only relinquish the grip if he wanted to. His would often rub over the pommel before taking the hilt up in his fist. It knew that when that happened, the grip would only disappear after the fight had ended and it slid through the familiar loop at his belt again.

He would even talk to him sometimes, before battles that he sensed would be worthwhile. He would hold the polished surface up to his face, reflecting his pupil-less yellow eyes as they widened in enjoyment and expectation. "Time to paint the ground red once more, my friend." Sometimes his eyes would change, gaining pupils and flaring up in a colour that was a reflection of his mood. When that happened, it knew that it would be a treat for both of them.

It remembered the coarseness of its master's tongue as he sometimes lapped the blood from his blade, as if it would imbue him with more martial prowess than he already possessed. Did that work? Was it the secret? If it was, would it also empower Aisoku's blade as if the material itself absorbed some unknown part of the enemies it had slain?

The grip continued to loosen and Aisoku felt itself shift, as if dragged down by a gravity that it couldn't sense. The feeling was an atrocity in comparison to what it was used to. A child with a dagger could slap it out of Eclipse's grip like this. What had happened?

It remembered the care its master had given to it, despite the enchantments making it unnecessary. After a battle, after he had taken care of his own wounds, he would always turn his attention to the trusty blade. He would take the case he always brought with him, with the careful selection of cloths, oils and ointments. It would be cleaned under running water first, which would have been enough, but not to the master. He would sit, letting it rest in his lap on a soft cloth blanket as he started to work. He would carefully dry the blade, rubbing at the inscribed runes until none of the red matter or tissue caught there remained. Expensive, specialised oils would be spread on its surface with the greatest care, the cloth slowly moving along the full length of the blade in long and even strokes. Never was he careless with the oil by leaving its blade dripping from it, instead he would work on it, gingerly caressing the flat and the edges until all had a gentle sheen to it. Even the pommel wouldn't be forgotten in the gentle ministrations. It did not matter if it would take hours to do so; he would work the blade ever so gently and fully until he was completely satisfied with it.

It felt something that once again dragged it from reminiscing on the past; it sensed something familiar, like the feeling of moving air on its surfaces at the beginning of a mighty swing. Initially it seemed as if it was just another fond memory toying with it, but the sensation stayed. The sensation gained a sound, like it was caught in a massive, slow swing accelerating to the apex. Initial relief was replaced by dawning horror as it still felt the powerless, fingertip-hold on its handle. It would be powerless as it was torn away from its wielder, sending them careening down separately despite the long years of entwined fates.

Wind started to clearly rustle the fur now as the breeze started to become a howl, almost as if it gave voice to the despair that Aisoku could not express. Did the body move, or was it just being jostled by the air-currents that started to fade into existence? One finger slipped, and another, it felt a finger slide along the grip until the broader pommel was caught between it and the thumb, as if the master minimised contact like Aisoku was some disgusting rag he was forced to handle. Then it slipped and started a fall into darkness, its razor's edge cutting the air with a shrill tone calling out to its master before it was too late. Did the body stir again? Did a wing flex? Or was it just the desperation painting the picture it so desperately hoped to see? And then the head snapped up, the fingers of the right hand clenching and then reaching for something lost. His master snapped around, apparently unperturbed by the freefall that whistled in his ears, yellow eyes immediately locking on the falling blade. His wings spread in a flash of colour, rustling before he beat the currents into submission with it and launched himself in the direction he desired. Eclipse's fingers reached out and runes flared up with dark light the second the familiar grip returned. Below, something started to come into focus through the darkness, like a sudden mist that was starting to clear. For a moment, the howl of the wind was replaced by the beating of wings. "I have you, friend."

Without hesitation, he turned his eyes downward and dove at the ground below with Aisoku stretched in front of him as if the skewer the ground. Yellow sparks danced along the surface and edges off the blade, before springing forth from it like dust. It engulfed both of them, turning them into a meteor as they hurtled down to the ground. The dust started to dance around them, solidifying and gaining shape. It formed spokes, grips and handles. An axle of golden light below a glittering floor-plate.

It did not know what was happening and it didn't care, just as how his master did not question it. Down below, the ground was awash with the beauty of conflict; fires, boots stomping through mud and the clatter where steel met steel. Wherever the master went, it would find conflict, it seemed - they did not always start it...but they would certainly be the ones to end it. It could see the master's eyes light up as the yellow irises shrunk slightly to give room to flaring pupils. His tails thickened and danced in the wind. His lips parted in a maniacal grin, baring his sharp teeth as if in display of threat at the very battleground below them. "It seems as though we have been delivered to a party. Let's enjoy ourselves."

Soon, Aisoku would again drink deep.