Yet the word was wrong. "Scraped" would imply that the movements were rough, even violent, when nothing could be farther than the truth. The motions defied the meaning. Each scrape was slow and gentle, guided by love and care. How could those feelings not have blossomed? The sword had served him for years.
Just as he had served it. The stone stopped, tucked into the man's palm as his spindly fingers slid along the blade. It was strong, beautiful, perfect in its singular purpose. It was a purpose the old man forgot in his admiration. The sword bit him for his carelessness, blood beading along his finger and rolling along its length.
He didn't even flinch. It was exactly as the old man deserved. What he held was a not a friend, nor a lover, but a beast. To wield a sword was the same as grabbing a tiger by the tail; one might twist it in a certain direction, but should never wait to meet it. To grow too familiar with a sword, to treat it too lightly, was to invite a violent end. It had happened to Ryukoge, and Sansoro before him. If the old man continued, he would just be another in a long line of fools. No, the sword was to be honored, ordered, but never befriended. It was his servant and his lord, but never his equal.
Yet he loved the piece of metal more than he ever did any man. With a sigh as soft as a whisper, the old man drew a piece of paper along the blade's curved length. The paper went black as the blade grew bright, held to the light for all to see. They admired and feared it, and rightly so. Utsukushiiho had long tasted the blood of men, and would drink its fill again this night.
"Thank you for waiting gentleman," murmured the old man, sliding the blade cleanly through the air. It soon stood rigid, tip to heaven, hilt to earth, one hand below the guard and the other at the cap. The warriors shuffled uneasily around him, a dozen different blades flashing in response.
"Itadakimasu."
The sword bit into flesh.
This time, the word was perfect.
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