I Am Xerxes Break's Sword

Summary: Xerxes Break's sword tells its side of the story and shares some insightful information about its master. Spoilers for chapter 56.

Words: 539

Rating: K+

Writer's Note: Thanks to total_alias for beta reviewing! I do believe this is my first attempt at having an inanimate object do the narrating.

I am no mere blade; I have a sheath that disguises how dangerous I am. My sheath gives me the appearance of a cane. My owner fools other people similarly, for he comes across as a doddering old fool but underneath, he's quite sly and dangerous.

When my owner obtained me, he was already quite skilled at using swords like me. I could tell, because of the way he uses me: expedient, with no wasted movements - he uses me to kill. I don't mind because that's what I live for. I am here on this earth to murder and maim. No sense in pretending otherwise.

Likewise, my owner thrives on his own murderous intent. Despite his often cheerful, sweets-loving persona, he is filled with a seething hatred and desire to kill. From what I have been able to surmise, his bloodlust is mostly directly at someone called the Will of Abyss, but he also has some ire reserved for a Mr. Vincent Nightray. Of late, he also has been grumbling about people called the Baskervilles. Quite recently I was taken out of my sheath for a relatively extended period of time: I felt a surge of hateful energy named "Mad Hatter" flow through me, and thus assisted my owner in turning a certain Baskerville to dust.

But most of the time, I remain sheathed. I help my owner get around in cane form. Not that he needs assistance in walking, no. But he sometimes uses me to feel his way around. This is understandable, since from what I have been able to gather, he became basically blind a short while ago. I sometimes feel sorry for my owner. Someone has to, for you see - he refuses to feel sorry for himself. Most of the time.

You may not know this about my owner, but he is full of so much self-loathing I am quite surprised he has not tried to use me to take his own life. Some time ago, around the time we first met, my owner spoke to his Lady and said he needed a reason to go on living. Apparently he got it, but sometimes I fear his resolve is waning. Recently during a fight with those Baskervilles, he seemed to have become convinced he was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Luckily a swift kick in the backside, a firm talking to, and some ministrations to his wound from a certain 'Gilbert-kun' helped set him straight.

Most nights, if he's not too tired, he'll take me out of my sheath and rub a soft rag over me with a little spit to shine me up. I love it when he does that. If I'm lucky, he talks to me while he does it. He tells me how he looks forward to using me to kill this person or that – usually the aforementioned individuals. He tells me how his day went. He'll tell me I'm one of his only friends. Then he looks at his own reflection in my shiny blade and smiles before he slides me back into my sheath.

It must be strange for an object that conveys so much hatred to feel so utterly loved.