"It's fate is mine, and mine it's. And our fate has not yet come to us."
He had carried this sword his entire life, since he had entered adulthood. He was an old man now, and he watched his grandchildren grow before him. They would regularly beg him for tales of the glories of his days of youth, when he had traveled the lans and fought so called evils and become known as a great hero. Sometimes he would try to fight these requests, claiming fatigue in his old age, but he would concede to their wishes without fail.
He would tell them of how he had traveled, looking for those in need. With his sheathed sword, he would bludgeon those who stood in his way, and clear a path for a future. When he had settled down and found a wife, he would occassionally return to the world and fight, for he wanted a safe life for his children. Even when those children married, he would fight when the need arised.
The grandkids would often asked how he was so strong. Nearly everyone in his family had tried to lift the sword. Even the ones who trained to become heroes in his footsteps could hardly move the hilt from the ground. Yet Hishio lifted it with one hand and placed it on his back easily every time, even as his hair turned all too white.
"It's fate is mine," he would tell the children. "And mine it's." They were never satisfied with that answer.
But finally a day came when his family was threatened directly. Another hero, a young man with a blade at his hip, demanded to challenge Hishio. He refused, and so the young man attacked his home. The moment his daughter was struck, Hishio lifted the blade from his back.
"Now you'll fight me, old man?" the young man demanded. "I didn't even have to kill her!"
With his free hand, Hishio shattered the lock on his blade, and the sheath slid off with a loud and heavy clattering. The sheath itself had weighed nearly two dozen pounds. The sword itself, despite its age and lack of use, was razor sharp. The face of it was flat, and inscribed with a dozen ancient runes in a language long since lost. Hishio lifted the monstrous blade and pointed it at the man, a direct challenge.
"You think just because your sword is bigger it's more threatening?" the young man mocked. "We both know what happens next. You're not walking away from this."
"No one threatens my family, boy," Hishio boomed. "My blade thirsts for your blood for this act. And it will have it."
The young man lunged forward, pulling his sheathed blade out quickly to attack. But he couldn't get around the massive size of Hishio's own blade. As he tried to maneuver around it, he felt his chest collapse as Hishio landed a solid kick, and then the feeling of his lower body was no longer there. The last thing he saw were his own legs on the ground several feet away as he hit the floor.
Hishio planted his sword in the groun, one edge stained a deep red. His family rushed toward him, surrounding him to ask if he was alright. He asked them all calmly to quiet down.
"My time as a hero has come to an end," he told them. Tears welled in their eyes. "But this is no cause for sadness. I have lived a long life. Much longer than other heroes. I have fought as nobly as I can, and in my final battle I have been able to grant the most important gift of all - safety for the ones I love. I shall see you all in the next life. I promise."
They gathered around him and embraced him tightly. His sword was already gone, faded away into dust and blown away by the wind. As they hugged, their grips slipped as he too passed on, a final swirl of dust encircling them before he disappeared for good.
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