The Graveyard of Broken Swords
Var gazed in awe at the fields lying before him. Grandfather’s hands rested heavily on his shoulders. He’d heard of the graveyard, but believed it to be a myth, nothing more.
“How did we get here?” he asked.
Grandfather shook his head. “Call it a gift.”
Var stepped forward, leaving his grandfather behind. In the midst of the ancient weaponry stored in the fields, he felt like a part of history. Battle hammers, broken swords, cannons and rifles, every weapon resonated with power. It fascinated, and frightened at the same time.
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The young man turned. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Grandfather smiled.
A sincere nod transported Var back in time, to childhood and early dawns. Grandfather in a travel cloak, waving goodbye, turning a corner. Time and again, Var would run after him. Time and again, the old man seemed to have faded in thin air.
The weight of a thick fabric fell on Var’s shoulders. He immediately recognized the faded brown shade.
“You carry a great responsibility now,” grandfather said. “When you feel the call, answer it. Bring the weapons here. Keep them safe.”
Var nodded, but a question did come up. One that had been burning inside of him for years. “Why do we take them?”
Grandfather bowed, and picked up a jagged blade. He twisted it a couple times in his hand, then slashed the air before Var. The shockwave lifted him up, and threw him back. The landing was rough, the message clear.
“These weapons belonged to great men,” grandfather said. “When great men fall, their arms stay behind, imbued with their power, ready to be wielded by the unworthy. So we take them.”
“And keep them safe,” Var said.
“Keep humanity safe.” Grandfather smiled. He held out his hand. “Do you accept this task?”
Var took the firm grip of the old man, and smiled back. “I accept.”