Ideas, Updates and Other Stuff

Insignificance

2/12/2018

Hey guys! Surprise, another short story from university. This one is a little bit longer, and is a bit different to what I usually write. It is centered around the story of King Author, but from the point of view of a soldier that isn't exactly happy with his new king. Here you go.

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The sharp sound of a whetstone grinding over pristine steel resonated throughout the campsite. It was a constant movement, bringing the stone up and then down over the blade, followed by a satisfying rasp of metal and rock. The length of the sword rested on my lap, eagerly absorbing the colours of our hungry campfire. Amused laughter echoed across the ground as another one of to the soldiers tripped up a novice, sending him sprawling into the dust. I ignored it, returning the rhythmic movements of the whetstone and the blade, letting it guide me deeper and deeper into the unbidden realm of memories and unspoken thoughts.

It was a number of years ago now, when he had first come through. A scrawny lad, whom I was five years senior. None of us had thought much of him. His dirty blond hair. His curious brown eyes. His sun bleached skin. He had bumbled into the sparring grounds without a care in the world and a gaze so full of fantastical wonder that I had considered breaking his nose with a fistful of reality. He was shoved into the barracks opposite mine, along with a bag of his belongings.

"He won't last long," Patrick, a friend of mine, had said.

I hadn't really cared either way, "Eh, another piece of meat between us and the arrows, 'ey?"

We had laughed then. None of us had expected him to pull the sword, nor wield it with such tenacity. He had simply walked up to it the next day, with the same infuriating curiosity, gripped the handle, and pulled it out of the stone. It had been like the easiest thing to him. Something none of us had ever achieve before. Not those that had put in all the effort and training. It had been him, second day in the barracks, with a still plush face and green soul.

The whetstone slipped against my blade and I cursed as my forefinger ran across its edge. I dropped the stone in surprise, shaking my hand at the sudden pain. A line of blood welled up along the finger, turning into a red river the sent drip upon drip to the earth. I grunted in annoyance, staring at the offending wound. That would hurt tomorrow. With a sigh I got up from me seat, wiping the blade of the sword against my shirt to get rid of the blood, before sheathing the weapon at my hip.

I began to walk, unable to keep myself from simply sitting with nothing to do, and left the laughter at the fire. While such joyous meandering was common the night before a battle, it made my stomach twist. It always had. Tonight was especially boisterous, as the battle tomorrow was especially important. Many would die, and victory was unlikely. Then again, all our battles were like that, right from the moment that boy had become king.

The day he had pulled out the sword we had learned his name. Arthur Pendragon. The bastard son of the late king. And the sword, Excalibur, had chosen him. The surprise and anger in the barracks had been overwhelming. A number of us had threatened to desert if that boy ever became king. Unfortunately he had quickly changed our minds. He had a small sparring match with one of our best, and the other man's defeat had been quick. A flash of swords, striking of steel, a show of skill, and our man had been on his backside. Even the boy had been surprised.