“You are dust in the wind. Riding the thing that now is playful but then was a storm. Then it took you, for no strength in the world can rip away a thing that is as light as you. You are free to be, free to be moved.

You pass one desert of sand and one desert of brine to end up in a desert of cracked earth. You dance over the land that rips and tears as the sun extorts its toll of water. A land that shrinks and crumbles and leaves cracks and crevasses abound. And as the wind subsides, you gently fall, and the burning sun, the relentless heat of these lands’ days reveals you. The sun that here is half the death and half the anguish of these parts of the world, it reveals your glimmer and as you gently touch the ground, you rise. Your legs work against the weight. Muscles move flesh and bone and blood. You stand tall against the empty landscape that warps and shimmers in the refraction of the heated air.

Before you, in the ground, there is a sword. It is unpolished and rugged - but whole. No rust has eaten away at it, no stone, no armor has chipped its edge. Your every move is purpose, every stride is a command fulfilled, no breath wasted, no regard is given to the emptiness around you. You step up to and you take the sword, grip the heft, and pull it out silently. Your sweated palms soak the band that guards your hand from the steel. You take your stance, take a breath and call out for the thing that awaits.

That is the sword I am.”

The sword that you are. The answer that unveils as much as it hides. The credo of the Blades Hands.

“What does it mean?”

The second voice belongs to a tall man. He moves before he takes his breath to speak. Before he was slouched back in his chair. Now he is slouched over the table, his chin resting on his fist, displaying the manner of absent students, exhausted workers and distracted dreamers alike. A posture that belies his sinewy strength.

“Does your question mean that you listened or that you did not?”

It is the voice that has spoken first. It belongs to a woman who, while sitting straight and composed, manages to look much alike the man.

“It is not fair to answer a question with a question.” The mans voice is a slight imitation of sullenness. “Where would we come to if everybody did this?”

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The woman smirks in response. The man copies her. Control makes the one act just as ambiguous as carelessness makes the other.

“Didn’t your masters tell you that a second question is better than certain death?”

“Didn’t you outgrow your masters to recognize that nothing, even certain death, will not be improved by trivial idiocy?”

The man thinks.

“Fair enough.” he concludes. After a moment of silence he continues. “Was your life more carefree before you picked up the sword?”

“Of course it was. Swords are made for killing and that is as grave a business as it gets. But I guess that is not what you want to know.”

“I ask because, for me, the life of the sword is the most carefree life I have lived.”

The woman took a moment to compose herself.

“I led a life that was was free of care but not free of worry. I was free, but yet my every step seemed to be predetermined by a chaotic puppeteer that made me weer and turn on the spot. A lack of care is not always a good thing. You do whatever you want - or whatever others want. Feeling your own weight, leaving your footprints in the sand - that is different.”

“That’s one way to put it. But we still do what others want. And usually we do the dirtiest work they have sketched out. Aren’t we a disgustingly vital part in their schemes?”

“The work pays well and even if decent jobs are far and in-between, it is more than I need. Not all dirty jobs are the same. There is good work out there.”

“Like this one?”

“Maybe like this one.”

“And you have no regrets?”

She looks him right in the eyes.

“If you can do our work without regrets then maybe you shouldn’t do it.”

A man steps up to the duo. His apron marks him as the keeper of this inn.

“Still no beer?”

“No beer. No wine.” responds the woman.

“Bread and soup. Hot and not too much.” says the man. And then, after some consideration, adds. “Both of us.”

“How generous.”

This time the man doesn’t pick up the joke and sighs. He looks to the ceiling.

“You know it isn’t.”

“Of course I do.”

Until their food arrives they look at each other and then then don’t, they meet each others eyes and then they don’t. They eat in a silence pierced by the sound of wooden spoons on wooden bowls, the slurping of soup and breaking bread. Sounds that show their sting only in uncomfortable moments like now.

The innkeeper approaches and takes their empty bowls. He starts to turn around and then looks at the two instead. He tries to speak but his voice is only a squeak. He clears his throat.

“What is it with you two?”

Two glowering stares quickly follow the brash voice.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to intrude. But what are you two doing here. You have been staring into the void and talking in riddles for hours now.”

“Do you know the Blades Hands?” asks the man.

“I know of them.”

“Then you know what we are.”

“Hard work?”

“Not so far.”

“What he wants to say,” starts the woman.

“What we want to say is,” interjects the man, “is that one of us is going to kill the other.”