The principles of my sword

 Every day the sword hung by my side, and every night it lay to rest as did i. I was careful to look after it, sheathing it in its scabbard when the rain fell and cleaning it vigourously after my enemies had fallen.  When people thought of me, they thought of my blade.

I would say i was not a natural sword maiden,  but years of practice wielding this blade within my hands had led my skills to progress tremendously. I knew its strengths and its weaknesses, and used them to my advantage. My hands had grown acccustomed to its weight and balance and so had my mind.

The sword was crafted for me by my father over a long period of time, and his sweat was infused within it.The Damascan steel he told me was the best, and i believed him. The patterning along its blade was evocotive of a feather and he had my name engraved along its hilt.

I grew old and my blade grew old along side me,  rust was evident in places where the weather had tempered it , and the engraving along its hilt was almost worn away.  A well respected swordsmith from the mountains would often look at the blade in wonder when i visited. When i asked him he would always say the same.

“this blade is old, new techniques are available to create a stronger, finer cutting edge. If you would let me, i could commision something greater for you”

This made me angry.

I had fallen once in the battlefield and my armour and the sword was stripped from me and i was left for dead. When i awoke, it was not my health i thought of, it was my sword.

 People say you should never get attached to things of materialistic value and for a while i believed them, but this search for the sword made me stronger, and i believe without my day to day connection and belief that it would be found, the sword would have been lost forever.

The respected swordsmith was right , maybe he could have created a better sword,  but  not for me.