Long... so long... and why does he keep saying "and"?! I don't know about Spanish, but it just feels wrong for me to write "and" so many times in one sentence. Anywho, enjoy!
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"Come closer. I
cannot speak very loudly."
Kratos took a couple of steps, but stopped a certain distance
from the bed. Hairón realized that, aware
of it or not, his official made sure to not get too close. He must already be showing a mask of death on
his face, that waxy translucent pallor repugnant to those who still have both
feet in the realm of the living.
"This is not going well, Kratos."
"Lord, you have been like this for only two days. There is no reason to be alarmed."
Hairón looked at his hands. In two days they could not have changed very
much, nevertheless he no longer saw before him the hands of a warrior, but of
an invalid, without color or substance, skin thin and brittle like an old sheet
of papyrus.
"Open the chest."
Everyone in the world knew what the chest was. It was
located to the right of bed, by the wall furthest from the window. Carved from gnarled and darkened wood, it hardly
drew attention, but it guarded the most valuable object of all Tramórea. It had neither latch nor lock. It was not necessary.
Kratos lifted the lid and removed from the chest a sheathed
sword. Taking her by the scabbard, he handed it to Hairón with care
not to touch the hilt. Hairón took the
sword reverently, and removed it from the black sheath. Kratos moved back two steps. Although the window was covered by a heavy
curtain of felt, the room was filled with light. The blade gave off a glow that at first glance
seemed blinding, but could nevertheless be gazed on without leaving one blinded.
In truth, it became hard stare at anything
else. Around its edge images shimmered, and the air became permeated with a sharp
scent and vibrated with a dull and distant buzz that was felt in the bones of
the chest.
Zemal, the Sword
of Fire, was the most powerful weapon that had ever existed. On many occasions it had fought for good and on
still others for evil; everything depended on the viewpoint of the historians
who narrated its feats. There was no
blade, shield or armor that could resist it, as only one of its strikes could
slice a marble column. It was said that,
when he broke the siege of Ghim, Hairón himself had executed a turning maneuver
with it which split in half the bodies of eight Inhumans encircling him.
But that was not the key to its strength. The power of Zemal was based in something intangible: prestige. When an arm wielded the Sword of
Fire, there was not a warrior that would not follow it even to hell itself.
Hairón felt how the power of the weapon tingled through his
arm. He sighed. That strength
which was not his came from the outside and could not give him life. I had plans, he said. If there were something that one could bring
to the other world it would be plans, thousands of them.
Hairón noticed the face of Kratos, which rippled indistinctly
on either side of the blade. The
captain's eyes showed his admiration for the weapon forged by Tarimán, but they
did not shine with the wet greed which Aperión’s betrayed. What good would Zemal be in the hands of that man. But, for better or worse, the Sword of Fire
had its own will and would end up choosing its owner, as had always happened
before.
Hairón kissed the pommel of his sword, sheathed it, and resumed
to give it to Kratos.
"Guard it. It
will soon have another master."
Kratos looked at him with a lump in the throat. He had just seen something that he should not
have witnessed: how a man says goodbye
to his lover.
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