Glittering stars winked with the mythril matrix of the new made thing. Their lights touched and connected, they sparkled and shone at each other, and began connecting as they felt the will of the one who carried it. The glittering light spread, connecting, linking, networking, as the magic rushed into it.

Soon it felt the sway of hand holding it in its scabbard, and more importantly the will contained within a mind that radiated magic and unlimited potential.

“What am I?” The mythril thought, the voice of its mind ever youthful for it would never age. It was somewhat startled by that question. It wasn't words exactly, but contained the same clear sensations one might associate with words making the translation easy enough.

The mythril wondered and waited as its connections grew. Eventually, accompanied by the sway of the walking person carrying it, it learned what it was.

“I am a blade. A tool and weapon.” The Mythril thought, but that didn't seem to be what the person carrying it thought.

Their purpose with him was not for violence. Not specifically. That was...that was fine. The Mythril knew it was a blade, and understood what blades did. They cut and sliced. They stabbed and disemboweled. It focused on the mind of the one carrying it.

“You are Yrra the Hero, Yrra Yggdrail, the mortal who will become the Firehawk. But you don't know that yet. I see it in you. In what you could become. It's certain to happen, but how will you make it there? And who will you leave behind?” The Mythril asked its carrier.

She didn't listen. Or perhaps simply could not hear.

The Mythril considered this and waited. Yrra had a clear intention in mind for it, and it was not violence. The Mythril felt her mind, and its surge of magic as she spotted the one she was looking for. Her pace increased and she hid the Mythril blade behind her back, her spirit shining with excitement.

“Am I a gift?” The Mythril asked, but again she did not listen.

“I would like to go with you on your task, but I think I would also enjoy being a gift. Who is this? Put me into his hands. I cannot move on my own, but I think I can feel his spirit if we touch.”

“Boltrim!” Yrra called, and hurried to the boys' side.

The Mythril waited hoping that maybe the quiet parts of Yrra's mind had felt it speak.

“I got you something. For taking up the Mark, and agreeing to come with me after all!” Yrra said excitedly. Her hands squeezed the Mythril's grip, hilt, and leather scabbard.

“Yeah?” Boltrim asked, and came from what he was doing to stand close to Yrra.

Yrra smiled at him, her soul shining bright, and brighter ever more as Boltrim leaned down to put his lips against hers.

“Here.” Yrra said, taking the Mythril in one hand for a moment to take from her back and present it to her friend.

She cared so dearly for him, but his potential was nowhere near her own.

“A sword?” Boltrim asked, amused, but gasped as he drew the blade and gazed upon the Mythril.

“That's right! Not just any sword!” Yrra and the Mythril said together.

“This is a mythril blade...Yrra! You cannot give me this.”

“I can and will. -And have. I had it made for you.” Yrra said, her voice going from bright to low and warm.

Boltrim was unable to argue with the loving warmth Yrra turned on him then. He took up the Mythril, touched its bronze hilt and handle. The Mythril liked the warmth of his hands, and the strength of his grip. Boltrim knew the sword and was a warrior. Even if he would never match Yrra, being the sword gifted to him by the one who would be a Goddess would still be an honor.

“Keep it with you. Wherever we go. Whatever we do. I want you to have a weapon that will never fail, and will be ready when you need it most. This blade can cut through dragons scales already, but with the magic of the Marks on our side it will grow to be so much more.” Yrra told Boltrim.

The words seemed to ring and chime within every single metallic matrix within the Mythril's blade. It shivered and was overcome with joy as Boltrim sighed loudly, and then smiled at Yrra.

He took up the belt and put it around his waist.

“I will be with you every step Boltrim!” The Mythril declared happily, “To the end of time and back if you reason to go so far. Never fear!”

Time and journeys went on. The Mythril blade rode at Boltrim's side for years and years. Rarely was it ever drawn, but when it was, the Mythril would roar and sparkle its most fierce-some. They traveled, the Mythril content in being a companion to the companion of a woman who was on her way to becoming the world's next Goddess. One that the world needed very much.

Time went on, the silver matrix of the Mythril flashing, and skipping forward in memory like a dream.

The day finally came after years. Boltrim was getting older. His bones hurt and grew sore more each day, but the Mythril knew he would carry on until the task was done.

“Soon Boltrim. We are almost there! The Dragon Volcragnir is cornered and weakened! We've saved Ruldanja for now, but it's time to finish the deed!” The Mythril cried.

Boltrim didn't hear, not really, but he did seem to grow more determined, and as he climbed the mountain at Yrra's back he rested his hand upon the Mythril's bronze pommel. The Mythril would have smiled if it could, and took the petting as happily as any fuzzy pet or tame creature might. The small army behind them was full of enchanted weapons and armor just like the Mythril, though many of them didn't talk or have names.

The fight began soon enough after that, silver lights flickering through the matrix. Boltrim used his enchanted shield and sword with the Mythril at his belt as always.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! GET EM BOLTRIM!” The Mythril cried from its scabbard, it would call to the other enchanted weapons if it but knew their names, but it always cheered Boltrim on in his fights.

The enchanted shield screamed and fought against the deadly flames of Volcragnir, the deadly and traitorous dragon. It blasted them away saving Boltrim, but costing it the last of its magic.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“You fought well brother! Rest and I will see you one day when I join you in Lyanodred's Armory!” The Mythril cried mourning the death of its enchanted brother.

Boltrim dived out of the next blast and down into the messy rocks of the high mountain. He was breathing hard, but had on his fighting smile all the same.

The dragon cried out and screamed.

“That's it Yrra! Ben! Able! Jakcova! Now! Hammer it with everything!” Boltrim cried out.

Magic that made the Mythril shiver ran through the earth, sky, and the deep beyond. Yrra's enchanted spear sang out a song of vengeance for the people lost to Volcragnir and his fearsome brood. The Mythril felt the Spear Sing out in Victory as Yrra tore at the Dragons heart.

“I AM THE BOILING HEART OF THE EARTH I AM THE VOLCANIC SKY! I CANNOT DIE! I AM VOLCRAGNIR! I AM THE REIGN OF FIRE!” The dragon screamed.

“SHUT IT YOU GREAT BIG NOISEY LIZARD!!” The Mythril shouted back, feeling the elation rising in all the weapons around it as the dragon was brought down from the sky.

The fight grew more intense. Many of the Mythril's enchanted siblings died protecting their masters from the terrible wrath of dragon fang, tooth, and fire as it refused to die. Boltrim fought on, skilled, and wise in his years.

The Mythril began to feel it as it had only a few times before. It felt as much as it watched powerful staves and wands deal out magic and attempt to bring death upon the Dragon. The Mythril could do it too if only Boltrim knew how.

“Wield me.” The Mythril found itself whispering.

If only Boltrim drew it from its scabbard it might see its blade shining with magic. If only Boltrim knew magic would he too feel the power gathered from every step of his journey.

“Wield me.” The Mythril whispered again and again as the fight carried on.

Finally the fight ended. Volcragnir fell in a heap, and Boltrim shouted with joy.

“YES! YES! Yrra! Hurry!” Boltrim shouted.

Yrra struggled, smiling, her armor blackened and battered, but whole. Much of its magic had died, but there was enough to carry on. The vambraces and the breastplate would carry on and revive the brother and sister pieces of her armor given some time to rest. The Mythril cheered at them with all its might so that the wounded pieces of magic armor wouldn't give up.

Boltrim took up Yrra by the arm, and helped her stagger away from the burning heart of the dying dragon. Many fighters were pulling away now, drawing back, and retreating from the fight.

“Wait!” The Mythril shouted.

The small army took up what wounded they could and started for the long path back down the mountain.

“Wait!” The Mythril shouted.

Yrra's spear, the one with the Elven Spirit inside, heard it and rattled in the Hero's hand.

Yrra turned upon the precipice and looked down into the mighty crater of the battle. At its center the dragon's flesh boiled and burned away taking even its bones with the mighty heat. And just then mighty laughter leaked in from the beyond.

“I am...eternal...there is no stopping me....I am Volcragnir! The Reign of Fire will come! Like the First Age! Nothing but fire and rock! The Reign of Fire will come!”

Yrra watched and listened. Boltrim tried to take her arm, but she didn't let him.

“It's time, little blade.” The spear said to the Mythril.

“Is this it?” The mythril asked, as excited as it was terrified.

“It is. Yrra knows it. I will go with her, and ensure she defeats the will of the dragon. Take care of the boy when we are gone.” The spear hummed to the Mythril.

The Mythril was sad to see her go, but found itself whispering to Boltrim all the same.

“Wield me Boltrim.”

“He cannot. That is not your future or his own.”

“Why not? We can do it! I know Boltrim doesn't seem like a lot, but we can do it!”

“It is not how Fate has designed. It is our task now, little blade. Yours has yet to come. Watch over him and his family in years to come, and you will learn where your purpose lies.”

Yrra stepped into the crater with her spear held in her hands, her rapier in her belt, and buckler over its back. Those two magic weapons were scared and terrified too, but they didn't speak. Not yet.

“Yrra!” Boltrim screamed, but the other companions took his arms and held him back from throwing himself into the crater.

“Yrra!” He screamed again, denial and agony wreathing his voice.

The crater's heart broke open and exploded with heat. Boltrim staggered back and the Mythril felt Yrra use her magic to fight off the heat as long as she could. She was stealing magic from the dragon as much as she was using her magecraft.

“Yrra!”

“Wield me!” The Mythril hissed, fighting against the bonds that tried to silence even its little voice.

“Yrra!”

“Wield me!”

“Yrra!” Boltrim screamed, trying to make his way to the crater after her, though the heat burned his skin and hair.

The one named Jakcova came, an old man with a great beard now, and cast a shield over Boltrim. He dragged the Mythrils master back. The Mythril would have fought with his master to save Yrra, but the binds of fate closed upon him.

“Get back Boltrim! She's doing what she must! Or Volcrag will rise again! Boltrim! Boltrim!”

“Yrra!”

Silver lights flickered through the matrix again, the world shook, and there was lots of running.

The Mythril’s thoughts stirred some time after the battle, as it was jostled from its storage place and handled once again.

“Boltrim!” The Mythril exclaimed in excitement, but Boltrim's hands weren't the same. He was older and care worn. He didn't look ready for battle at all.

“She gave me this. Long ago. Carry it and her name well, my son.” Boltrim said, and handed the Mythril to a young boy.

The Mythril would have stared at its aging master, but then again was a little too delighted to feel his master's blood flowing in the veins of this child. It had the same magic, the same energy as Boltrim. The Mythril remembered the last words of Yrra's spear and turned to this new fate with a smile. It was better than sleeping in an old trunk anyway!

“Are you ready to go on an adventure, little one? I'll watch over you, and fight by your side.” The Mythril said to the boy as he stared with wide eyes down at its blade.

Silver flickers ran through the matrix showing uncountable steps through time, marked only by the darkening color of the bronze of its pommel and hilt. The Mythril glowed with content as it was passed from one adventurer to another down through Boltrim's line through it stayed largely silent and content in its duty upon the belts on its family.

It rode there until one day it found itself put upon a mantle.

“A SHELF!?” The Mythril roared, but none heard it.

For a moment it considered being upset, but then again each day the family came and had dinner before it and the fire. The lights of their souls warmed it. It watched over their meals, and their prayers to the Gods, now a relic to be honored and remembered for the ancestors lost.

It was nice being so near the family shrine to Ynneria as well. The Mythril found comfort in feeling the one who first carried it so near, and yet so far away in the beyond as well. It rested, closing its eyes and soaking in the warmth of hearth and home for untold years that passed in a twinkling of its metal mind.

When war came it grew angry, but was too dormant to speak until a man of ill repute placed his dirty rotten fingers upon the blade.

“You dare...my home...my family...curse you...curse you...” The Mythril hissed into the man's ears and dreams at night.

More twinkling, and more passing of time. The Blade slept and came awake at times as it was moved, but it did not shine or sparkle for the strangers who bore it or tried to wield it in combat. It would show these thieves none of its secrets.

Its mind twinkled dully through years of movement. It traveled with dull minded brother and sister weapons, it was traded and haggled, found useless, unlucky, and then finally stowed away and sold to a dusty old smith in some backwater marsh town.

Worse came to worse and the blade found that it was left in a state of neglect that its old scabbard had bound to it as if rusted and glued to its shining surface. To top it off a careless customer of the old shop knocked it free of the bundle of magically dead spears it had been tied to up above the high shelf. It fell into dust and shame atop that shelf, now out of sight and probably never to be found.

“Great. Just great. No one will see me up here! Not that I wanted to be bought again anyway. You're all just dirty swamp knights and casual adventurers out here anyway.” It grumbled.

The rain above bothered it. The sky could spare some of that moisture for its scabbard maybe.

The doorbell rang and the Mythril would have gasped if it could. It tried to shake or stir or do anything other than just sit there, but that wasn't what the ancient magic in it was for. It couldn't really do anything with it at all without a master.

“YOU THERE! ELDER KIN! HERE! I'M UP HERE!” It screamed, over and over, until finally the tall man looked the right way to notice it.

The silver lights of its mind twinkled on through days and hours.

“YES! TRAIN WITH ME!”

Its mind twinkled rapidly.

“YOU'RE THE ONE SHE MEANT! KEEP TRAINING!” It shouted at him day after day, training in that damp and soggy basement practice arena.

Its mind sparkled brilliantly within the depths of the blade, and the battle in the temple against the orcs was reflected in a thousand fold throughout its matrix. The magic swelled from deep within. All the steps, all the meals, and every beat of its master's hearts came together in one voice as the Elder Kin struggled against an ancient power turned abomination. It was time! It was finally time!

“WIELD ME! WIELD ME! WIELD ME!”