no source material for this one. Arthur/Lancelot
Call him a sword. New forged, he's robed blood red blue in firelight, weightless and balanced as a flower in the palm of your hand. Imagine, his hand turned to meet your grip, his strength your shield, his light your perfect witness.
A sword does not reason. Part a hair or a heart on the edge of him - blood has no voice. A sword's kin more to the woodsman's axe or the boatswain's hook than the burnished gold of a crown. He will not bend but breaks. Like love, rust creeps through the steel unseen.
Steel carries its