Disclaimer and author's note : I do not own FE4, Tyrfing, Falaflame or anything pertaining. I wish I do, but alas, it's not meant to be. The timing of this fic is going to jump around a little once a perspective changes, but if you'd played FE4, you'd be able to guess where in Kansas everyone's staying.
The Trouble With Being a Holy Weapon
Of Dainty Damsels and Grouching Swords
He stirred from a long sleep, still rather drowsy. Hadn't been awake in such a long time, ever since that blue-haired kid was roasted to ashes and singed his metal along with it. Tyrfing would've liked to congratulate the boy for his efforts in destroying what's left of his dignity if he wasn't so fried first.
A gentle rocking motion was the first thing he'd experienced. Last he checked, that redhead Velthomer guy had him sealed up in nice, comfy casket by the wall. And unless great advances in technology had been made while he was sleeping, those kinds of things weren't supposed to swing. Or move at all, for that matter.
A salty smell hit his senses. That really did it. Home---or at least the place where ol' Baldo set up residence and kept him---was near the sea, but never quite so near enough to smell the salts quite so vividly.
Where in the blazes am I?
Good morning, Tyrfing, came a light, cheerful voice, as if in answer. Falaflame, of course. That dainty damsel of a spellbook was always in such a ditzy cheery mood, the sword thought. He remembered well how she snickered when his previous owner was burned to a crisp by her pre---well, current, owner.
And a good slash in the binding to you too, Fala, he replied, though with more steel in his edges than he'd intended. Perhaps hilts are better at this kind of thing. What in the world ever wake me up this time? I was just having this nice dream about a comely-looking silver claymore---
Your next owner, I'd surmise, the spellbook of scathing heat answered, her voice a bit bemused. Old boy Alvis is very much worked up about it. He'd been clutching me like a security blanket for the past few hours.
And you like it, of course, he commented dryly.
Naturally.
If Tyrfing had a human head, he'd probably be shaking it in exasperation. The first company he'd had in a long while, and it just had to be Falaflame. Didn't have anything against her, but sometimes her peculiarity drove him nuts. She was always too attached to her wielder for some reason. And it probably helped her, too, that Grandbellian etiquettes dictated that sons take up their parent's house, regardless of which side of the family his bloodline was derived from. She'd grow incredibly bored stuck with Fala and Fala's daughters after her.
He could almost see the reflection of her creator Salmand. Most likely, he's a leering old man---or dragon, whatever their creators were. At any rate, Falaflame, do you have a mind to tell me where I am? I have this feeling that I'm not in my old seaside residence anymore, but I can't see a thing with this scabbard on.
Use your head. Or your hilt, depends. It's not like there's any brains in there, anyway, Falaflame retorted back, irritated for some reason. Thorhammer always say that she was prone to mood swings.
By a thousand comely swords a-slashing, he missed that Thorhammer. He always had something to say to everything.
Now come, Tyr. You haven't been asleep so long that you're sending unconsciously, do you? Came the fire spell's voice again. He winced. Damn straight. He was rusting. Swords needed a good whack every now and then, and he hadn't had that in, what? Eighteen years?
I'm not in Chalphy, Fala. Where the heck am I if I'm not?
He swore that he heard Fala giggle. Alvis shipped you out to give to your next owner. That dear man is too honorable for his own good at times.
Let me guess. My next owner is the baby son of that blue haired kid, isn't it? He was still sucking his thumbs last I saw him.
It was a long time, Tyr. Things considered, I'll probably get a chance or two to bake you again, depending on if Alvis decided to fight for real or not. Just like old times, eh?
That might've been funny for her, but feeling one's hilt melting wasn't an entirely good experience. I am not amused, Fala.
Cheer up. If what Thor and ol' Mistortin's been bombarding me lately is right, then the kid kicks butt. In fact, I was hoping you'd win, Falaflame answered him, sounding a tad more serious than her previous reply. In fact, he was inclined to say that she was really telling him exactly how she felt.
And it was surprising. Whatever drove you to make that statement?
This time, her reply was dead serious in tone, though not without some hints of wry amusement. Stay around Loptous for five or six years and the same will happen to you, she sent. That spell was absolutely horrible. I understand why Narga had such a thing against him. Alvis was dense in a way, though. Instead of giving her to his daughter Julia, he opted to lock her up instead. Guess he still loves his son.
Tyrfing vaguely remembered Alvis as being Falaflame's current user, but that he had a son? And a son who used Loptous? A daughter who's capable of using Narga? Now you've completely lost me.
If Falaflame was human, she would've shrugged. Sorry. Can't explain good. You'd better ask Holsety about it, that guy always had a ways with words.
Tyrfing wasn't always very comfortable around Holsety. As a sword, he rather liked things simple. The Wind spell usually liked things high and falutin' and is as eccentric as most spells go. Thor was about the only sane one in the whole bunch...which brought up an earlier observation.
Falaflame, you mentioned Thorhammer and Mistortin, he called her. The flame's voice was already fading. Are they coming, too? Where are they?
Fala's voice was distant and almost inaudible in her answer, and Tyrfing had a slightly queasy feeling even if he had no stomach to speak of.
They come, she said. They and the others, those we have not seen a while. Thor shall be your enemy, as do I and a few of us…
Her voice trailed off.
Fala? Fala? Falaflame! Answer me! Tyrfing called, feeling a sense of urgency wafting over him. He still needed answers, and answers she didn't give him. Fala couldn't just up and go now.
Her last answer came faintly, as if being carried on the weak sea winds. Alvis…calls me…I must be the Fire that Sears the Sand once more….Fala's Fire….
And she was gone.
The swaying motion got worse, as if the person carrying him was running. The holy sword felt a wave of darkness washing over his senses for a time, a wave of despair. It wasn't terribly unlike the last war he'd fought in, but it wasn't that strong either. His carrier was being chased by shadows, and as a creation of light he hated sitting idle in his scabbard. If he ever got out of this, that marauding despair wouldn't stand a chance.
And then there was the sense of someone, something familiar, closing by, though still on the other side of the sea. Something that reminded him of that laughing young lad who held him with such utter fascination, long ago. That lad had grown old and died for ages, but nothing would ever make Tyrfing forget the feeling that was Baldo, no matter how faintly.
And Baldo was coming.
I wonder if the kid ever stopped sucking his thumbs, Tyrfing thought mildly as the murmurs of the other holy weapons began to come into being around him.
