Drynwyn was not, naturally, given to introspection.

Few swords are.

In a pretty short space of time, though, it'd had a couple of enforced periods of solitude, and it hadn't overly enjoyed the experience.

The first was in the dragon's hoard following Rhydderch Hael's untimely flash frying. Although it had no fundamental concept of marking the passage of time, it recognised that the distances between stabbing people were significant.

After raging against the unfairness of it all for an unknown amount of time, Drynwyn had settled in for some lengthy seething. This had led to some uncomfortable reflections about the nature of its time with Rhydderch, which it had squished down nice and tight and was never going to think about again.

I am my bearer's sword. There's nothing like me, and I am theirs.

Then, out of the blue, she'd freed it.

It understood there were a couple of different 'types' of person. But Rhydderch Hael didn't seem to care about that, so it hadn't either. Its new bearer was one of those whose soft bits stayed soft, rather than hardened up, but that made no mind.

My bearer is my best friend. They are my life. They must master me as I must master death.

Of course, it recognised that they hadn't established the smoothest of bonds thus far, and, to be fair, it had probably been due a period of enforced silence.

However, the return of Merlin had completely freaked it out. From its experience, there was only room for one disembodied voice in a bearer's mind, and it worried it would be pushed out.

My bearer, without me, is useless. Without my bearer, I am useless. I must swing true. I must cut deeper than my enemy, who is trying to kill my bearer. I must kill him before he kills my bearer. I will.

It didn't know what happened to a sword that was never drawn: it had never needed to have that sort of existential thought before. Rhyddrech wasn't the type to keep any of his weapons sheathed for a moment longer than necessary.

But, if Morgan never drew it again, what did it become? What would happen if it turned out it was trapped in the silence of this inventory for the rest of time? Could it even call itself a sword anymore?

Interficiam ergo sum. It was all it knew how to do.

My bearer and myself know that what counts in life is not the cuts we make, the heat of our fire, or the smoke we make. We know that it is the killings that count. We will kill.

It knew that its new bearer was pretty inexperienced in such things. After so long with Rhyddrech, there were things in battle that had become second nature. You both knew what the other one was thinking without needing to spend too long thinking about it.

Looking back at its time with Morgan, it could see that it was still following old patterns of behaviour. That wasn't good enough. It needed to do more to try to adapt to her and how she wanted to go about things. It couldn't rely on instincts that weren't appropriate anymore. One headless woodcutter demonstrated that.

My bearer is human, even as I am immortal, but they are my life. Thus, I will learn her as a sister. I will learn her weaknesses, her strengths, her parts, her accessories, her eyes and her heart. I will ever guard her against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my grip, my pommel, my blade and my tang against damage. I will keep my bearer clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will.

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It remembered the creed it had sworn so many years before when it was first removed from the blacksmith's fire and handed to Rhyddrech.

It didn't know where the words that it spoke came from, but it recognised they said something about its intrinsic 'swordness'. It was these words that connected it to its bearer, and until now, it had not truly tried to apply them to Morgan.

Before the forge, I swear this creed. My bearer and myself are the defenders of the world. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviours of Britain.

As it thought these uncomfortable thoughts, it dimly recognised that it had been taken from its state of stasis in Morgan's inventory and had returned to its favourite place on her back. Its voice was still being muted by that bastard Merlin, but - all in all - being out and about significantly improved its situation.

She won't let you keep me silent forever, you know.

Indeed, not. But it is not my intention to remove your voice in perpetuity.

So why've you still got the muzzle on me?

Have you spoken your creed yet?

Drynwyn bit back from releasing a stream of invective. It had never come across anyone who was not a sword who had spoken of this before. How do you know about that?

I'm Merlin. I know everything. Have you?

You're an evil bastard, that's what you are. Don't think I'm going to stay quiet about the things you've done the moment I can tell her.

We can both agree that, of her many flaws, Morgan does not number self-delusion amongst them. She knows exactly who I am and the things that I have done. At the moment, she needs my knowledge to gain in power, and I am happy to provide it. Are you going to help me?

If the sword could have spat, it would have done. Help you! If I could find your wizened neck, I'd slit it in a second.

And, should I have the hands to do it, I'd melt you down to slag and have you remade into a particularly decorative fruit bowl that I'd gift to an elderly female relative. You'd be engraved with all manner of flowers and a variety of frolicking woodland creatures. Anyone who looked at you would describe you as 'positively charming'.

You evil bastard!

But neither of us is wholly free to do what we would most dearly wish right now, are we?

Fuck you.

Hear me, Drynwyn, Sword of Rhyddrech Hael. Yours is a tale that, should we somehow maintain the current timeline, holds a place of reverence among the great swords of legend. You may not be Excalibur -

She's such a snooty bitch. Never could understand the attraction.

Quite, but you are a named blade, and that will still mean something in a millennium if we can avoid the cataclysm to come.

Do you think I care about that? About how people I will never meet think about me? There was a pause. What sort of things did they say?

Drynwyn wouldn't swear to it, but he was sure he could hear a smile enter Merlin's voice. According to legend, when drawn from your scabbard, you would blaze with flames, striking fear into the hearts of enemies.

Too fucking right.

However, your legend also carries a cautionary tale. It is told that anyone unworthy who attempts to draw Drynwyn from its scabbard will suffer a terrible fate, as the sword's flames turn upon the would-be thief, burning them to ashes.

Happened more than once, I tell you. I've charcoaled enough sneaky fuckers in my time to open my grill station.

And so, in the grand tapestry of British legends, Drynwyn of Rhyddrech Hael shines as a symbol of the power of virtue and the consequences of greed and ambition. Throughout history, you remain an enduring emblem of chivalric power. And unless we can somehow work together to support Morgan, that future will be wiped out. No one will ever have heard of you. And I think that would be a shame.

There was a tense moment whilst the sword chewed over Merlin's words. Then, with a dip of its pommel, it accepted the wizard's words.

You get one chance. Fuck me over one time, and we're done.

Those are sound words to live by, dear Drynwyn. And they do you credit. Now, about the creed ...

The sword swiftly intoned its sacred words, reaching the final line, which it bellowed out in a crescendo.

So be it, until victory is Britain's and there is no enemy, but peace!