The Fallen Sword
You take a deep breath, counting the seconds as you slowly exhale. Then you bolt, as fast as you can, scrambling for the mouth of the stream and the promise of safety.
You emerge into daylight, nearly blinding after the dim depths of the chasm. You shield your eyes and blink rapidly, chasing away the sparks. Then when you finally lower your hand, you're gazing across an expanse of open ground, broken only by craggy rock and scruffy grasses.
Scattered across this expanse, driven into the earth or laid in pieces amongst the stones, are the rusted blades and chainlinks of innumerable decaying weapons and forgotten pieces of armor. The further you walk, the more marks of desperate battle you find. There's a bow, snapped in half and growing with moss laying half-sunken into long-dried mud. It looks like it was once quite regal. There's a shield, decorated with dried and peeling paint that suggests it was once an honorable emblem blazing with red and blue.
At the very edge of the old battlefield, just before the grasses become dense and lively again, there's a sword. It has been run deep into the ground, and its once-bronze hilt is tarnished and dull. There's chips in the blade. You can't take your eyes off it.
Almost without meaning to, you wrap your hand around its hilt, and pull it free. Brittle grass roots break away from it as the earth releases its hold, and before your eyes, the sword transforms. Its blade mends in an instant, gleaming under the rays of the sun. The hilt seems to glow, and a sudden spark of deep crimson reveals a shining ruby. You almost drop it, but something in you clings to it and holds it tightly. Your heart is racing.
You wonder if it's foolish to want to take it with you. You glance back over your shoulder and wonder if all the weapons and armor in this field are as bewitched as this one. But this is the one you want. You are certain beyond a shadow of a doubt.
It glimmers softly as you have these thoughts, as if agreeing with you. It is warm to the touch, and something within it speaks of a courageous spirt. It seems to think it belongs with you too. You bring it close to your side, pointing the blade down so you can carry it along without danger. You'll take it back, polish and sharpen it, make a proper sheath for it. Maybe there's someone out there who studies the old magics who might have some answers to your questions.
And with those plans forming in your mind... maybe it's about time to head home.
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