He Crafted A Blade So Sharp It Killed The Wind.

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

He crafted a blade so sharp it killed the wind.

His fears began to pace, creating heat, forcing sweat. “I’m telling you Charlotte, I killed it. I killed it!” He hung his head so low he nearly folded.

“Right..” She said, tone stretched long.

“My foolish dreams!” He roared, “How stupid, stupid I am. They warned me, such a blade, a blade as sharp as I claimed could never exist. And yet I fought the imperative! Fought the rule.”

“Wait, hang on..”

“I can’t believe it!” He continued, “They told me not too. That I couldn’t… that I must not!” He turned, dry stilled air caked the land like guilt. Clouds loomed above, frozen.

“I was there when Rittlebren and the counsel spoke to you. They said couldn’t, as in it’s impossible to make a blade so sharp. Not that you shouldn’t do so. I think you are getting your words mixed up.”

His eyes blinked without rhythm. Like the early cracks of a damn, and then it broke.

“Oh, not only am I a murderer, but a fool! A wide grinned, steady hand fool!!! I can’t even hear correctly. I did the impossible and now I suffer, now I must pay for my crime.” He collapsed to his knees, then to his bottom. Sitting like a broken child.

Charlotte shifted at his loathing. “Be realistic, you sound insa-” She paused, eager to not contribute to the shattering of his ego. Far too loud, and taxing. “..there is no way you crafted a sword so sharp it killed the wind.”

He looked upward, red stained eyes searching for relief. “You think so? Truly?”

“Of course, now lets see that blade. I’m sure it’s not..”

He unsheathed his creation, with boldness, a little too much boldness. The blade sliced the air, sliced through Charlotte’s neck cutting off her disbelieving words, slicing through the grass behind her, the mountain behind it. The entire earth split in two, magma poured out like blood.

“Shit.”

He dropped the blade, ran away. Hopeful to make a blade light enough it can fan away lava.