As I ventured into the shack after a long day’s smelting, muscles aching and sweat pouring down my face, my eyes fell upon my father. He was resting in an oaken chair; his skeletal fingers were wrapped so tightly around the arms of his knob-infested throne that I feared they would snap like twigs. A long string of unintelligible words danced on his moving lips. I stared at him for a moment. Once plump skin and wild brown locks had been resigned to gnarled leather and wisps of grey. The man was old, possibly senile, and renowned in our village for being a madman. Yet sometimes, I swore that my father’s eyes held the same beamish glow that I often saw in myself.
Leaving my workstuff behind on an empty counter, I slumped down against the wall across from the ancient boy. “Hello, father,” I greeted. There was no response save the single strand of nonsense that he had been repeating. “Is everything okay?” With that, he had opened his eyes wide. My breath caught in my throat.
“My dear boy, the monster lurks nearer,” he gasped, shaking his hands violently at me. Disappointment coursed through me. Usually, his outbursts consisted of dramatic retellings of his fantasy life in which he fought sorcerers and slayed dragons.
“There is no monster father,” I sighed, staring at the lost soul that stood not three feet from me. “Let me take you to bed. You need rest.”
“Rest is unthinkable!” He swatted me away and rose from his seat. “There is but one who can slay the monstrous beast! And he sits in front of me, bending the knee and trying to get me to bed! Hogwash, I say!”
“Father, please!” I begged. “You are tired and delirious. Come to your room.” This time, I was met with silence. When he turned to face me, his eyes shone with unprecedented fear.
“Flames and death!” He screamed. “Flames and death will engulf this world if you fail to do as I say!”
My body refused to move; a dark feeling rose in my chest, something I had never felt before. Father had only had outbursts twice: once when mother grew ill and again on the day of her funeral.
“Son, you need to slay the beast,” he spoke more calmly now. “For the good of our people, you must.”
“But how? I haven’t any weapons, nor any experience with fighting,” I argued.
Father disregarded me as he swept into his bedroom. Loud rustling and creaking resounded from deep in the bowels of the shack, followed by the sound of metal scraping across the wooden floor. The old man returned, lugging a steel chest toward me. I hesitantly stood up as I eyed the intricately detailed box.
A cold hand reached for me, beckoning me forth. “It was once mine,” he said. “But now it is yours.” I gazed down at the chest, and a soft hand rested on my shoulder. “Open it.”
My fingers traced the metal decals on the chest, getting caught up in the intricate spirals and finally in the lock. I tugged on it. The lock loosened its hold and eventually surrendered, falling to the ground with a solid thud.
Slowly, I lifted the lid of the foregone chest and peered inside. There, placed on a bed of red velvet, sat a magnificent sword. Its hilt was a silver spiral that was just large enough to encase my hand. I grabbed the sword, balancing the blade in my hands as I gawked at it. “Really? You’re giving this to me?”
“Yes, now stop staring at it!” He scolded me in jest. His eyes softened when he locked gazes with me. “I bid you safe travels, my son.”
“Thank you, father,” I bowed my head slightly. “For everything.”
He shook his head. “I do not deserve thanks. Now please, you should be getting on your way.”
And without a glance back at my home, I started on my journey.