He stood silently, a sword in his hand. Not a wooden one, no, this one gleamed silver, it's keen edge glinting. He looked down it's length, his eyes tracing every part of it, every inch of it's perfect blade to the tip and back again, the hilt simple and unadorned. It was a master's weapon, a well-crafted beauty of death and violence. And it was his.
He began the dance to warm up and loosen his muscles, the sword practically singing in his hands. He slowly picked up speed, flowing from one form to another, his innate grace beautiful to behold. Not much older than the initiates in the corner of the yard, he had already surpassed them all, brilliant and strong and perfect.
No. Not this...
Not a single step out of place, not one mistake. Faster, now, again and again, increasing in speed until the sword was a blur of steel, a perfect whirlwind of death. From the corner of his blue eyes he saw his swordmaster silently nod, pleased. He didn't let it distract him, didn't allow himself anything except the dance, and the blade, and the movement.
Please... please, don't do this...
No one moved, now, all of them enthralled by his movements, his dance of death. Every form flowing into the next, every moment suspended in the gray morning. He was nearing his top speed, a climax nearly as sweet as any he had shared with a woman, and everyone watched. Everyone but him.
Oh, gods, forgive me...
As quickly as it began, it ended. He was looking down the blade once again, this time in shock, his blue eyes tracing the blade's keen edge, now red with blood. The wooden clacking of the practice swords had stopped, replaced now by screaming, the screaming of a dieing man.
The man lay in a growing pool of his red blood, some human nobleman who had walked by and stumbled, stumbled into his deadly dance. The sword's perfect edge had cut him near in half. Men were shouting, gathering around, yelling for healers and priests, but he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. Loose fingers dropped the blade and it fell, so slowly, slowly, to the ground. He closed his eyes...
... And opened them, nearly screaming, his body drenched in sweat. Purah was back in his apartment, on his low couch. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but it had just been a dream, a simple manifest of memories he did his best to forget. The elf took ragged breaths, trying his best to calm his pounding heart as it seemed to rattle against his aching ribs. Oh, gods, why? He cradled his head in his hands. Tears streamed down his face as he was forced to remember that day.
The nobleman had been passing by, distracted by something or other. No one ever fully understood what had happened. They just know he had stumbled and fell right into the path of Purah's blade during his morning exercises. All the soldiers and guardsmen knew that Purah preferred to practice with a naked blade early in the mornings and no one ever came close to him. His master had even told him that it wasn't his fault, that the fool human should have known better than to come that close to a practice yard, especially to the area where he had been practicing with his blade, that there was nothing he should or could have done differently.
Still, Purah had never forgiven himself. He had been young by his people's standards, was still young by his people's standards, but the nobleman had only been twenty-three. Twenty-three! So very young, too young, to die. And he had killed him, accident or no. He remembered all the condolences, all the advice, all the preperations and talk, but none of it mattered. He felt empty and alone, and he had called it quits.
It had been both the hardest and easiest decision in his life. Hardest because he thought that all he was, all he could be, was a swordsman. He thought that there was no other way, no other choice, but, thankfully he was wrong. It was also an easy decision, easy to say, easy to do. He set it aside, hung the sword up on the wall as a reminder, and never felt the need to touch a sword again. He picked up a quill and never looked back.
Lucky for him, his skill with the sword was not the only skills he had. His penmanship was nearly as perfect as his fencing, though he admittedly had to work harder at it. He had found a master to teach him illumination and translations of ancient texts fairly quickly in Silvermoon. His job at the Arcanum was simple and fulfilling.
Still, there were days where he desperately wished he did not fear the sword. Like last night. Drunken bullies or no, he could have easily put those upstarts in their places, but didn't. The idea of physical violence now made him ill... and sad. He remembers the young nobleman, the human who got too close, and he wishes... What? That he hadn't been a fool? That I had been more aware of my surroundings? That the world were fair and just and right?
Purah sighed and stood, rubbing his face and turning to face the gleaming sword on the wall. His eyes traced it's perfect edge, from point to hilt. Even in the moonlight that came through his thin curtains, the blade seemed to glow. It could not be any more enticing even if it whispered to him. But he passed it by, ignoring its allure, instead going to a nearby chest and pulling out his work clothes.
The sun was still hours away, but he couldn't sleep now. He'd go for a long walk in the city gardens, then work early. Perhaps, if he finished some of the backlog requests, he'd get to leave early and spend some time with friends in the tavern. Real friends, not some aristrocrats who care more about shiny baubles and foolish magics than simple common sense.
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