Elara's POV
A thief's hand closes around my hilt, and I scream with everything I have.
"PLEASE! I'M TRAPPED! HELP ME!"
The thief—a young man from what I can sense—yanks his hand back like I burned him.
"The sword spoke," he whispers. "The cursed sword actually spoke!"
Yes! I scream louder. Yes, I spoke! Come back! Don't leave me!*
But he runs. His footsteps echo through the cave, getting farther and farther away until there's nothing but silence again.
I've been trapped in this sword for fifty-three years, two months, and sixteen days. I know because I count every single second. It's the only thing keeping me from going completely insane.
And that thief was the closest I've ever come to freedom.
I want to cry, but I have no tears. Want to punch something, but I have no fists. All I can do is exist in this prison of metal and rage.
Why won't anyone help me?
But I know why. I've figured it out over the decades.
This isn't Earth anymore.
I don't know how or why, but when I died, I didn't just get trapped in the sword. I got transported to a completely different world. A world called Aethermoor.
I learned the name fifteen years ago when a group of soldiers entered the cave. They spoke a language I somehow understood—maybe being a sword gives you magic translation powers, who knows—and one of them said, "These are the Forbidden Caves of Aethermoor. We shouldn't be here."
Aethermoor. A world where magic is real.
I've sensed it. Felt it in the air like electricity. People here can throw fireballs and heal wounds with their hands. They can fly and turn invisible and do things that would be impossible on Earth.
And somehow, my entire sword collection ended up here too.
Over the years, I've heard people mention other weapons: the Dagger of Rending, the Lance of Sorrow, the Axe of Ending. Those were all in my museum. All swords I collected and loved.
Now they're scattered across this world, and I'm stuck in one of them.
Why me? I ask the universe for the millionth time. What did I do to deserve this?
But the universe never answers.
---
Year seventy-nine.
A mage enters the cave. I sense her power immediately—it crackles around her like lightning.
"Please help me!" I beg. "I'm trapped inside this sword! Can you hear me?"
She picks me up. Studies me. Her magic probes at the blade, trying to understand what I am.
For one beautiful moment, I think she's going to free me.
Then she says, "The spirit inside is too dangerous. We must seal this cave forever."
No! I scream. I'm not dangerous! I'm just trapped! Please listen
But she doesn't hear me. Or maybe she does and doesn't care.
She casts a spell. Magic wraps around the cave entrance like chains. Then she leaves, sealing me inside.
Now even thieves can't reach me.
I'm completely alone.
---
Year one hundred and twelve.
I've started talking to myself just to hear a voice, even if it's only in my head.
"Morgana," I say to the darkness. "I hope you're rotting in jail. I hope Richard left you for someone richer. I hope you're miserable."
But even revenge fantasies get boring after a hundred years.
I try to remember good things instead. My parents' faces. My favorite coffee shop. The smell of old books. The excitement of finding a rare sword at an auction.
But memories fade when you have nothing to tie them to. No photos to look at. No places to visit. Just darkness and time and the slow erosion of everything I once was.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm even human anymore.
Can you be human when you're a sword?
---
Year two hundred and three.
An earthquake shakes the cave. Rocks fall. For a terrifying moment, I think I'm going to be buried forever under stone.
But I survive. The sword survives. I always survive.
That's the curse, isn't it? I can't die. I'm already dead.
I'm just... stuck.
The loneliness is the worst part. Worse than the darkness. Worse than the helplessness.
I would give anything—anything—just to talk to someone. To hear another voice. To not be alone for five minutes.
But there's no one. Just me and the darkness and the endless, endless time.
---
Year two hundred ninety-seven.
I've become stronger.
I don't know how, but my consciousness has grown over the centuries. I can push my awareness farther now. Sense things more clearly.
When people get close to the cave, I can feel their emotions. Fear. Curiosity. Greed.
I've learned to whisper into dreams. When someone touches my hilt, I can plant images in their sleeping mind. Most people think it's just a nightmare and never come back.
One man—a warrior—actually heard my voice while awake. But it terrified him so badly that he fled screaming and told everyone the Blade of Remembrance was cursed.
Now people avoid this cave completely.
I'm not cursed. I'm desperate.
There's a difference.
---
Year three hundred.
Today is the anniversary of my death. Three hundred years ago, Morgana and Richard killed me in my museum.
Three hundred years I've been trapped.
Three hundred years of darkness and silence and crushing loneliness.
I don't even feel angry anymore. Just... empty. Worn out. Like I'm disappearing, bit by bit, until there'll be nothing left but the sword.
Maybe that's what happens eventually. Maybe I'll fade away and truly become an object. No thoughts. No feelings. No Elara.
Part of me hopes that happens soon.
But another part—a stubborn part that's kept me counting seconds for three centuries—refuses to give up.
Someone will come, I tell myself. Someone who can hear me. Someone who needs me as much as I need them.
Please. Someone. Anyone.
Before I disappear forever.
---
Then, like magic—real magic this time—I sense him.
A presence entering the cave. Male. Young. Desperate.
His life force burns bright but flickers like a candle in the wind. He's dying.
"There has to be something here," he gasps. "Anything. Please..."
And I realize: this is it. My last chance.
If he dies, I might not sense another person for another hundred years. Maybe never.
I gather three hundred years of loneliness, rage, and desperate hope. I push it all into one word and scream it directly into his mind with everything I have:
"HELP!"
He freezes.
"Who's there?" he whispers.
Oh my god. He heard me.
After three hundred years, someone finally heard me.
"Please," I beg, my mental voice shaking. "Pick up the sword. I'm trapped. I need you. And I think... I think you need me too."
His hand reaches out.
Touches my hilt.
And our souls collide like thunder.