sword

Stealing today's prompt from the year of our lord two thousand seventeen because the word "husky" isn't giving me any good ideas.

It's still dark when I'm finally prepared to leave--early enough, I had hoped, to leave under cover of darkness, but my teacher sleeps light these days. So many of us do. "You're leaving us, then?" she says, and I stop. Her tone is sharp, alert--she's been up. She's been waiting for me.

"I--"

"You have many talents. Subtlety isn't one of them." In the light I can't see her face, but there's a warmth to her words. Very slowly, she rises to her feet. I drop my bags and run to her side--I've seen how it hurts her to walk, since the injury. I don't want that on my conscience. Not now.

Her smile is more than half a wince as she hands me a parcel wrapped in fabric. "My old sword," she says.

She doesn't say anything as I unsheathe it and hold it in my hands. It feels good, even if the blade has seen better days. There's an intensity to her expression that is only amplified by the starlight, and I can't stop feeling like she's waiting for a reaction. "Thank you," I tell her.

She makes a noise of disapproval. "It's not a favor," she says. "But you're determined to be a hero. And who knows? Maybe you'll save us all." She sinks back to her seat, more quickly than I think she meant to. "I hope you will. But I need you to understand, before you leave, that carrying it will cost you."

I try to meet her eye, but I can't. I sheathe the sword, look away, and nod. "I understand," I tell her. "Thank you."

The sword is an awkward weight on my hip as I leave town, constantly reminding me of its presence no matter how I shift it.