I am too old to play. I prefer the stillness of a room with no movement; the peace of silence rather than sound.

Once, of course, things were different. I not only stood strong against blows and birds and beasts, but I gloried in movement. I moved, I made sounds; others moved, and their words charmed me. Children loved to play with and in me then, and I welcomed them gladly, while the mother watched from a short distance away.

But I grew old.

I became different.

I was made to be different, rather; made with skillful hands to hold other things than children. I held still, long shapes, which smelled of something poisonous, and that I did not like.

Still, I'd been put in a good room, an empty room, to hold things in. Things, not children.

But children entered in again.

One first, then two, and then finally four.

You already know what I am, don't you?

And to the children I revealed the one secret I had kept from all others, that I had doors on both sides, and as I was not made for children, I was glad when that other door opened. For there was something about them—a curiosity, perhaps, in the reaching fingertips—that reminded me of the other two, the ones who had sown me first. It seemed fitting that my other door would open for them; and fitting that they would not stay within me long. They had other places to be, and I was not made for children.


A/N: Yes, I'm doing more than one again. Because I thought of the first one and liked it, but then the second occurred, and I want to see if I can write it! (Plus, it will help me get closer to the 25,000 word prize!


When my maker forged me, he whispered to me that I was meant to be held by the brave. A tool in their hand, yes, but also an inspiration. For he made me with love, and he hoped I'd be held by those that love made brave.

I do not know what happened to my maker. I wish I did, sometimes.

I wish I could tell him that his wish came true.

I wonder how he knew what they needed most, the hands that held me. Maybe because the father who commissioned me looked only at two things, the beauty of my hilt and the deadly sharpness of my blade. His eyes held no courage; his heart, little love. Some, perhaps—but not enough for courage.

Still, that little love meant that I was not for him, but for his son. A gift, to commemorate his son riding into war, a small thing to carry with him on his belt.

And the son took me in love, for I was never used for meat, nor for whittling kindling for a fire.

He kept me sharp.

He held me every night, those first two weeks, one hand clenched around my hilt, the other stroking up and down my sheath. He whispered the names of his family, whispered prayers for their safety, especially for his little sister's. They must have been companions; perhaps he had been her protector. And she was his courage.

He needed it, for war chills any feeling heart with horror. Courage, decision, adrenaline, he had it all. But his came from the fierce desire to protect his family's name, their status—and his sister.

But courage is not enough in war, and he fell. A last charge, against rebels of his kingdom, that gave a hundred men time enough to retreat—but he fell, and his blood stained my blade. I wanted the stain to remain, that I might always have a part of him, this brave and loving boy.

The hundred men came back the next day, two hundred others with them, and won back the ground they had lost. Careful and reverent hands lifted my master and stripped him, that what he had might be sent back to his family. I travelled, wrapped in their colour of mourning, back to the father that commissioned me. Back to the sister, who wept more than any other member of the family, who lifted me up and wept more—who took me with her when she went to her room, to weep still more.

Her tears washed away the stain, but it did not matter, for I knew we would both remember him, the brave boy, her protector.

She took me out occasionally—after a month had passed, six months, a year, a year and a half—but never to use. Only to remember. And I was glad I had no human tongue, for then I did not have to tell her what I remembered of her brother. She spoke to me instead, and I could hear the love and frustration in her words, love for his memory, frustration and anger that he was gone, however bravely he might have died.

But then the night came where she dressed in his armour, and took me with her. I wondered where we were going, for the night was dark, and she rode as one going on a secret mission. When we stopped, the moon shone gently on the trees, and the only sounds were those of night.

Then she drew me to use on herself.

I wanted to scream in horror, for despair gives no true courage. Courage only comes with care, and despair has no care at all.

And then, a blessed, blessed courage came, a courage born of love, for the Horse, who had until then stayed silent from fear, spoke. Spoke from hope, yes, but also from the courage given by love. She loved this little sister, and spoke to save her life.

The hands clenched around me, but the Horse spoke a second time, for the courage given by love seldom fails. And the sister listened.

When she sheathed me again, setting me back where I belonged, I nearly rattled with relief. For her own courage began to wake, courage born of love for a place where cruelty was less common, magic seemed nearer, and she could have a life worth living.

Thus it was that when Aravis rode towards Narnia, I was on her belt. I stayed with her through the journey, watching her courage grow more and more, as her love grew stronger and towards more people.

And I wished, with all the steel in me, that my maker knew that his command had come true.

"But on the second day I rose up and washed my face and caused my mare Hwin to be saddled and took with me a sharp dagger which my brother had carried in the western wars and rode out alone." ~ The Horse and His Boy


Prompt 12: Write from the perspective of an inanimate object. (Bonus points if you do not reveal the narrator's identity till the end.)

So? How did I do? When did you guess?