The sword remembered the harsh swings of its master. The crushing blows delivered, shaking it through its stony core. The sword’s name was Kongenavblod, and it was the oldest of three swords created by one designer whose name Kongenavblod didn’t know because it didn’t become aware until his master took up the hand-carved hilt and slashed the blade into the flesh of a villager who tried to stand up to his assault.
It remembered the feeling of the different victims it had killed; the supple flesh of a woman and the harsh salty skin of a fisherman. It remembered the screams of the townsfolk. It did not regret. It reveled in the deep rooted memories, the almost tangible nostalgia for the adrenaline-fueled kill.
Now it was on display, its master long dead, its hilt long untouched. It hadn’t felt the sweet release of a kill for centuries. Kongenavblod had long given up hope of a new master. It was faced daily by descendants of those villagers who its master had allowed to live and even descendants of its master and his master’s companions, utterly oblivious to their own heritage.
It was infuriating, to watch as its rightful owners plodded carelessly through their meaningless lives, interacting and even mating with those who they should be killing; those lesser races that Kongenavblod had once delighted in annihilating.
It did not rest. It never stopped hating those who watched it with that bored expression that said they couldn’t care less that it had once murdered entire populations. They stared for a moment before wandering on to other swords. Swords with whom Kongenavblod had once fought. Swords it had defeated. Swords that had fancy engravings that meant nothing when faced by a true master.
Kongenavblod was a king among swords and it knew it, reveling in its mastery, its perfect (for the time) build that was admired by all that saw it in its day, but unappreciated by the slack-jawed morons of modern times. A few came by that valued its perfection, but all too often they were of that lesser race that deserved to be wiped out from this planet they valued so much.
Kongenavblod only waited for the day it would eventually disintegrate into nothing. It was already starting, its perfect edges melting into rubble. One day it would cease to exist and rejoin its master in the halls of Valhalla where it rightfully belonged.