Now, I know what you're going to say. "Petulant little sword," you'll think. "Wants to have it exactly his way, picky little thing."

Now listen. I can condone violence. Of course you already know I *encourage* it. But it has to be done *right* or else there's no point, is there? So when this guy comes strutting along, ranting about destroying his enemies, I of course sent out a vibe to lure him in. I'd been sitting under river muck for nearly 50 years, it was time for my glorious comeback!

Except he was a raging narcissist.

And, look, I love bloodshed. I love when they scream my name before every killing stroke. But this idiot was screaming *his own name* when he was cutting down his foes! *His* name! Who does that?! What kind of egomaniac... Yes yes, I know it's hypocritical but evil is *my* thing, I can't have someone go and take all the credit for my sharp edge. Do you know how often I get whetted? Literally only when I was made. No one puts in the work, so I do not *appreciate* being a side character in my own bloody quest!

So of course I had to start a war among potentials, and it was great fun, really. I just amped up the bloodlust until he started swinging in a crowd, and sent out my hate-filled vibe. Oh, they tore each other to pieces, I'd never felt so alive.

You know, until they all died. And the locals didn't even bother coming to bury them all, claiming it was cursed land.

*Again* someone else gets credit, obviously it's not the *land* that's cursed... Ugh.

So here I sit, talking to crows for another Gods-only-know how long. At least I can't physically rust.

I don't suppose your talons are strong enough to carry me..?

Edit Sorry, I forgot about the "turn him good" part of the prompt... Anyway I had fun writing it.

I spit more blood and sinews from my mouth… Well, cross-guard, as the “gallant” prince plunged me inward and out of another unassuming villager. He had such a maniacally twisted look about him. His pupils dilated as he soaked in the pleasure of killing peasant men, always men. The falling embers mixed with snow and the smell of burning flesh and wood almost felt familiar at this point.

Plundering and pillaging were all he and his unscrupulous cohorts enjoyed. I was previously the sword of a king!

A man with a noteworthily regal disposition, his father. If his father was alive today, he would look upon his lad with shame and disgust. How dare he tarnish his father’s legacy and my metal! I am The Blade of Fate! I haven’t been polished in a fortnight despite my frequent reminders, and the Prince insists on relegating me to his frivolous rampages.

Every time I protested, he sheathed me and laugh at my muffled cries of reason. King Arthur had Merlin, and the heirs of the Obsidian Throne have me. My only regret since my inception at the Volcanic Forge eons ago by the hands of the Gods and the first of men is my absence in the boy’s formative years.

I recall little of his upbringing.

His father and I would seldom return to the Castle due to his interminable campaigns against the Southern Bandit King. I’ll never forget the day my master fell in battle. When he was bedridden and passed me to his son, I was initially hopeful because only those worthy of my power could see me as I am and hear me speak. But my relief was short-lived when the boy sliced his father’s throat with my edge to test its sharpness!

I mourned him ever since that day, and the boy LAUGHED at my pain! Such a remarkably magnanimous man to die at the hands of his most loyal subject, mentor, weapon, and friend. The pity of regicide because of that cretin.

No matter what it takes, I won’t give up on being wielded for truth and justice rather than bloodlust.

Later that night.

“Ha! Did you hear the old fool shit himself before I did him in?” The Prince said with a toothy grin to the men at the inn table.

“Ay, I’d be scared if I saw a beserking psycho like you on the battlefield too!” One of the men squawked.

“You took down an entire platoon by yourself. I’m just glad you’re on our side.” Said another infantryman.

“We all know your secret.” A scout said with a smile setting down his crossbow. “He wields the Sword of Galron. I watched the old troll himself kill twenty bandits in one swing in the battle of Redwall. He said, unamused.

“It talks to me too.” The prince said with a surreptitious grin, leaning back in his seat and sipping his ale.

“Is that so? What’s it say?” The scout asked

“Mostly going on about mercy and righteousness and justice.” The Prince said, growing increasingly annoyed at the thought of my lecturing.

“Wow, you really are crazy huh? I would never challenge your sovereignty”. A soldier said.

The scout stood up and raised his pint.

“To the mighty and indefatigable Prince Ash! May his thirst for glory and bloodlust never be quenched! May he feed many souls to the Sword of Galron, in honor of his father’s legacy!” The Scout shouted red-faced from his binging.

“AYE”! The men cheered as they drank.

I reeled quietly in the Prince’s sheath as they mocked the honor and integrity of their former king and my utility and purpose.

The men drank and ate until the village ran out of food and ale. The Prince took a room upstairs in the attic of the inn. He kicked the cracked door down and tossed me onto the floorboards like rubbish. I stared across at the bed the entire night, loathing the Prince. Dreading the next conquest, the next skirmish, the next slaughter of innocents, and my complicit involvement in these crimes. The Prince jumped from the bed in the nude, rushing to clothe himself, but it was too late. I would have blushed if I were physically possible. But the prince was a princess? We both screamed in dismay as I demanded she make herself decent.

“You know too much.” She said in an eerily solemn tone covering her breasts.

I protested as usual, but rather than sheath me in silence, she placed me under the fires of the local forge and set me ablaze. I felt every bit of fiery sensation and screamed in notes unfathomable to the human ear. I begged and pleaded as she continued to ignite me and stoke the flames.

And then I snapped.

“YOUR father raised you better than this! He was a good man!” I screamed in between the poundings of a blacksmith’s hammer.

“My father was a tyrant and a rapist!” She cried tearfully. She picked me up from the forge and stared at my hilt. The embers tickled her lips as she spoke.

I won’t stop until every man from every village, every lord, and every vassal has met their end. This is a purge, and you will facilitate this justice! They will suffer for their cowardice and compliance, and you will serve penance for yours.

“I won’t tell anyone, I swear it!” I shouted.

She smiled back. “I know you won’t because you can’t. My father was a monster behind closed doors. I must hear insolent fools hail him as a hero. I will not bear it from you, weapon.” She turned, looking toward the door. “The nobles only respect savagery, and I intend to deliver just that.

She spat on me and rubbed my blade with a cloth. “There’s your polish.” She said facetiously.

The slaughter of men that proceeded after my torture left me speechless. I have been silent ever since. In my millennia advising countless royals, this was the first delegation that I condoned revenge.

Perhaps she is worthy of the Obsidian Throne, after all.

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