When hand comes to hilt, question comes to heart, from soul is given heaven's answer via either divine balancing scale or sword. For there is either hope, or there is not, and one way or another, suffering must end.
A sword master speaks the ancient language as the blade is formed, for by these daily incantations it is able to chose its own allegiance.
The sword carved ancient runes into the amber of early day.
The expression of the sword is the accent of the heart that holds it.
It was Excalibur, shining in the sun as if it were fashioned from the brilliant rays themselves. The broad silvery metal was warmed, as was the rock it rested upon. In all the landscape it was the thing that drew the eye, a symbol of the kind of bravery that enables others to find their own courage, to be more than they thought themselves able to be. Yet, as the moon, it was a reflection of the sunlight, of love's own energy and the duty of protection.
To heaven I vowed my sword is thine.