Fade To Black, The Curseborn Saga, Book 1

Chapter 2 - The Tale of Fenrir

Once, long ago and far from here, there lived a boy, and his name was Fenrir. He loved the simple things in life, from the flowers and the stars to the moons and their light. But there was one thing that Fenrir cared for more deeply than anything else. You see, every so often, there are those born into this world for a sole purpose. For Fenrir, that purpose was swordsmanship.

From a very young age, Fenrir had shown an acute mastery of the blade that far surpassed his peers. By the time he was sixteen, he had mastered all forms of the sword, and the philosophies of the old had seemingly been passed down to him prophetically. Although young Fenrir was not typically known for his ambitions, he was the only person in history to have declined being knighted by the Empress. However, he did have one dream that spoke to him every night after closing his eyes: he knew he was born to be the greatest swordsman to ever live.

The dreams spoke to him in the form of visions, playing out in tales that would never repeat themselves. The visions were so real that there were times Fenrir would wake up with the blood of his adversaries still on his hands. It was an odd thing. An unexplainable thing. But it was because of these dreams that Fenrir knew his path. It had been carved out for him in the stars, and he would follow it until the end of time.

Yet with all the skill that Fenrir possessed, he soon came to find that there were no swords of his equal. Each and every blade he used would turn to rust and eventually crumble into dust. There was no sword that he could find, or have crafted, that could match his will. Because of this, Fenrir decided that he would seek out the Old Lord Masamune, a firstborn blacksmith who had crafted all the swords he had read about in fairy tales.

Masamune was a legend in himself. Since the beginning of his era, it seemed that he had a similar ambition to Fenrir, except that his purpose was the sole creation of swords. They were as beautiful as the four seasons, sharper than the cruelest word, and strong enough to be wielded by the greatest heroes of old. Fenrir knew that only Masamune himself could craft him the swords he needed to attain his dream.

And so it was that Fenrir traveled to the small village rumored to be the home of Masamune. It was a quiet place, full of trees and warmth and solitude. In the center of the village, he found Masamune's shop and, excited over finding it, quickly found his way inside.

The shop smelled of fire, iron, and steel, a scent that brought a smile to his face. Just there, in the back of the shop, sitting on a wooden bench and hammering away at the makings of a new sword, was a very old man with long hair the color of midnight.

The old man stopped hammering when he felt Fenrir's presence and turned his eyes to the young man standing idly in his shop. The moment Fenrir met his eyes, he knew the old man to be Masamune. The fire in his gaze was the like of someone who had seen the world, and they told Fenrir many things. Throughout his life, Fenrir had looked into the eyes of the most dangerous beasts, the grandest of nobility, and master swordsmen from distant lands, but all of them paled in comparison to the eyes of Masamune.

Fenrir bowed.

"The answer is no," Masamune said, turning back to his tempering.

Fenrir looked up hesitantly, trying to find the right words. "I haven't asked for anything yet."

A tight smile curved Masamune's lip. "Just because you have not asked me for anything does not mean that you have not come here to ask me for something. I can tell by your eyes that something fierce has brought you here, which is likely the desire of something. I can tell by your hands that you have been more familiar with a sword than anything else in your life. I can thus judge from the two together that you have sought me out in the hopes that I will make you a sword."