From the moment of her creation (and it was creation, for she was made, not born) she knew that there would be no other. And truly, she did know, for she had as much mind from the second of her creation as some of the lesser members of his species had in their prime. She was not perfect, adequate, yes, but hardly the paragon of her kind, but she was, and always would be, all that she could be for him.

He had been the one to construct her, she knew this as surely as she knew herself; which was to say that she knew it with everything she was and ever could be. His presence ran deep within her bones, the very building blocks of her form; there was not a part of her he didn’t shape, just by presiding over her.

In her first few clumsy seconds of existence, she had cherished his strength. Some showed her kind a form of compassion, hesitant empathy for the possibilities of consciousness and sentience within, but he had none. She was glad of it. A mind of her own was a blessing to her, but she wanted none of the confused, soul-deep reluctance that some wielders possessed. She was a weapon, she wanted orders, a will to guide her; a roll he filled most admirably.

He had no love for her above the usefulness of her strength, he had no care for her wellbeing above her physical condition, he had no hesitance when sending her into danger in his place. She was a tool to him, and she was thankful. Yes, she could suffer pain, both physical and emotional, but nothing would hurt more than the end of her own existence through his death. In his uncaring, in some ways callous, treatment of her, he was unwittingly ensuring her continued survival along with his own. If he was to die, her death would be certain. In sending her in his place, and having her suffer so he would not, he was protecting his own life, and hers through it, even if it was unintentional. And if was at all possible for a sword (sentient or no) to love; she loved him with all of her nonexistent heart.

It never saddened her that he could not feel her mind, bonded to his own as it was. He had no skill for such things, and never sought to try and correct this. To him, his mind was where he kept his demons, a sacred place that none were permitted to enter. He failed to understand himself, so wouldn’t allow another to understand him in his place. It was better that he never knew her; for she did, truly, understand.

She had been with him for the entirety of her life; always one step behind him; watching the world from over his shoulder. He was her Captain, and she was the tool of his regiment, but she was his more than any other’s. Her life (could it be called a life?) was threaded through the studs he wore, and although she was wielded by his soldiers she saw them as little more than herself; they were slaves to his will, just as she was.

She didn’t understand them, though, even when she tried to touch their minds (they struggled to feel her at all, even if they knew how, because she was not theirs). They saw him as their leader, and valued his savage strength, but in the same breath they mocked him for his flaws. He was a animal in their eyes, a wild beast dressed up in a military coat, rather than the proud captain that he really was (to her).

Sometimes, she hated them. They valued their own safety over her own, as he did, but she couldn’t ever make herself welcome it as she did when it was him. In her unique opinion they where shallow things, she disliked them, as they lacked the vast life and the instinctive, ardent fury that ran beneath his skin. They lacked his passion. They were not him, so they could never be enough.

But they were nothing in comparison to his ladies. His ladies… the depth and intensity of her loathing for them was indescribable, even as she loved them through him. It was a network of conflicting desire, fury and rejoice, and all because she wasn’t enough to please him.

When she was formed, there had been two, and they had fallen long ago. She felt the pain that stemmed from their loss, eclipsing any love and joy that may have once existed between himself and them. She couldn’t forgive them for that; he had loved them with all of his savage heart, and they had had the nerve to allow themselves to die, breaking that precious heart that they had been gifted. She would never die. She would live for him, always, and never leave him alone. But clearly, that was not enough, because there had been two others after and more children also.

She had been frustrated, but she had given them a chance. The first grew on her slowly, because she made him happy in his own twisted way. He grew a family with this woman, always watched over by his grieving, jealous sword, and lived for the longest time in relative content.

But then that woman died, she had the audacity to perish with their children, lost to war and strife, and his blade, his eternal tool, watched as he cried. Her proud captain was wounded, and there was nothing that she could do to sooth his hurts. For too long, she remained, unable to comfort him as he grieved, cursing the existence of the family he craved and lost; because she felt his pain as surely as if it was her own.

He was a captain again when the second (and last, she knew now that there would be no more ladies, but at the time she had seemed unremarkable, save for being the fist to prick his skin in countless years) denied to enter his life and pry his heart from its cage. She was unimpressed with this woman, but in time had to admit that the sadly fragile creature was good for him.

She watched, behind him and shuttered from him, as this new woman coaxed him back to a form of existence that he had not held since before he had created his tool. He had forgotten himself in so many years of war, bitter and battered, but his lady guided him to remembrance.

And she rejoiced, even though she was not the object of his desire, because he could feel her now. It wasn’t much, it could never be much, for he truly was unsuited, but under the tutorage of his lady he learned to sense the faintest brushes of her mind against his own. He was curious of her, and she was delighted to feel his fragile, clumsy probing against herself.

But of course, good things never lasted. When the devil had come knocking, her fury was enough for even her muted master to feel. The end of him had come calling, and she would not have it! She would not let some monster slay her proud master, her beautiful master, he would live forever. But of course, as always, she was not enough.

A wasp, the devil was a wasp, and although she had no flesh to sting, her master had all too much. He was nothing but flesh, and his core of passionate bone could do nothing to prevent the poison that flooded his veins. She was forever incapable of making a sound, but she screamed with him as he burned. She was linked to him as the devil cursed him into purgatory, writing on the rooftops under the moon.

And then he shattered. And it was done. His mind fell through her grasping fingers, and he lost his will to sustain her; he didn’t have the sentience to think of her after dancing with the devil.

She knew she was unravelling, she could feel herself becoming dust, but she did not grieve for herself; she was not alive, and could always be rebuilt. She grieved for him, for he was broken, his mind was raw and bloody inside, drowning in a churning sea of the very fluid that had once kept him alive.

…and then there was no lady to fix him, no son to avenge him, for the devil had marked their door, and truly; she despaired as she faded away.



And then, she was alive again. She was at his back, drawn like a mantle across his furious shoulders, they were running through the dark and yowling challenge against sin. She was confused and limp; nothing more than a dented shield, and his wielding of her was nothing like his past control; but he was there (bless his broken heart he was there!) and she had never known such happiness.

She strove to learn from him as they moved together; he was angry, so angry, and terribly afraid. So lonely, but frantic in his need to fight. His needs were hidden from her, but she would follow him regardless; he was her captain, she was his tool; she didn’t need to tell him what their goal was for her to strive for it.

And then they saw the devil. If she had thought she had known anger in the past she was sadly mistaken. She had no heart, but his cry inflamed and broke it all the same. Their desires were united; they would kill this creature for its sins. The killer of his lady, his son, his sanity, was running from them, as he should.

She drew a great amount of satisfaction from seeing Satan run from them; for they were the end of all things, and she wailed in silent, frustrated rage when he turned about and ran the other way. She could no longer see his desires; she couldn’t understand why he had abandoned their revenge.

…until she saw the boy. A son with another’s eyes; he confused her, for there had been no more ladies. That she was sure of, for he had heard him promise, even as she shattered to dust across his back. But the boy was there all the same, broken and fragile but still breathing; scooped into his strong arms, wrapped within the bony cage of her strength.

They guarded the boy with their joined passion; his for the boy himself, hers for her master and what was precious to him, and she began to understand. Her master loved him, his boy, as much he could love any with his heart so twisted, and she looked upon the child with new wonder, for he was the thread stitching the fragments of her master’s broken heart into something close to whole.

This boy, his strange, broken boy, was their second chance. He wasn’t the son that her master had lost, but he was a chance to repent. They had not been enough to protect his family, they had fallen to their knees before the devil, but now the devil ran from them, and they had a new son to guard. And somewhere, deep within the feebly twitching remnants of his heart, her master loved him just as if the boy was his own.

He stationed her to stand guard of them, even though he lacked any real memory of her from before. His trust was astounding, it warmed her to her chilly, bloodless core, and as she waited in the branches of a truly ancient apple tree (it was as barren as herself, but similarly strong) she heard him call her ‘mine’.

Years passed. Her master was still a broken shadow of his former, glorious self, but he was healed enough to wear her as his shell and welcome her sturdy protection. The others called him Demon, but he was nothing of the sort, her lovely master. He was fierce and hurting, but he loved their son (and the boy was theirs, unbound by blood but loved by them both, even if the child’s own ability to love seemed compromised beyond saving).

It was when they saw the man swimming in the earth that she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

((Are you accepting? And what are you looking for?))

i am amazed and speechless.

visitor, this is astounding.

Damn, this is inspiring, i wish i can write like this for Bow's past.

Thank you so much, cheonzewei, your commend really brightened what has been a truly horrible day. I wrote this on a bus, in the dark, in the middle of nowhere because I had nothing better to do, and I only really posted it because I wanted to show it to a friend and my email account was refusing to work. I was honestly shocked that it became so popular, and that people truly like it; I can never really tell what my own writing’s like.