Sword Of The Chosen One

Here's a short story I wrote earlier this year.

There was a dull and distant roar at dawn. Its sound did not wake Flora. She was already out of bed, as she was every day before the first light of morning, feeding her livestock, tending her field and her garden, and then pausing to relax in her contentment. She rarely thought about the empty scabbard hanging on the wall, nor the sword it no longer housed. The sword had been in her family for generation upon generation. It belonged now to her twin sister Anna. Elsewhere, not here. She heard the far-away din, and it cast her memories back. She thought of the sword for the first time in a long time.

Flora and Anna came from a long line of warriors. In each generation, her family produced a daughter who would be The Chosen One, the guardian who would wield the ancestral blade in service of the crown, in defense of the land and its people. This duty was held sacred. For centuries, a daughter assumed her duty and destiny upon her eighteenth birthday. As The Chosen One, the girl would take the sword into battle, leaving the scabbard behind until the day all battles were won, or until the mantle passed to a younger Chosen One...or until The Chosen One could fight no more. When the warrior fought her last battle or took her last breath, the sword would go to the next generation, the next in line.

Across centuries, there had only ever been one daughter in each generation, one daughter born to the sword. Flora and Anna had been the first set of twin sisters.

They fought. Not just about duty; about everything. Everything. There was little common ground between them; they shared blood, and nothing else. Still, both had the natural ability that was their birthright; none throughout any of the lands could match their mastery of the sword. Yet only one of them could be The Chosen One.

Anna already considered herself The Chosen One; she sniffed at the notion of her sister ever dedicating herself to the calling, to duty, to destiny. Flora would rather see to her weeds and her animals than defend the realm. Silly girl! But ancient law had foreseen the possibility that someday two sisters might have to compete to be chosen. The ancient law required the sisters to battle. To the death.

Flora won the battle. She would not deliver the killing stroke. She stuck her weapon into the ground.  I refuse, Flora said. I yield the victory to my sister. Flora offered a hand to the prone Anna, but Anna refused, and cursed at Flora. Flora walked away. The clerics murmured and sputtered, but Anna was given the family's holy blade. Anna was The Chosen One. She went off to war. Ten years passed. Anna and Flora never spoke again.

The nearing sound of the once-distant roar ended Flora's reminiscence. They'll be here soon. Flora looked around at her humble shack, at the life she'd lived and loved. She'd had no family, produced no heirs, but she had been happy. She looked at the empty scabbard. Duty. She spat on the ground and shrugged. Destiny. A sigh. The Chosen One. A single tear. Damn it. People from the village would look after her animals, manage her small crop. The flowers would die; no one in the village would care about her silly garden. Flora said goodbye to all of it. She donned a cloak and went out to wait in the light of the rising sun.

The funeral procession would arrive by mid morning. Flora's sister Anna was coming home. The family sword had chosen Flora after all.

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