by Jeff Wilson
of Beonen’s expression. Beonen took hold of the wire wrapped hilt, but before he could begin to draw the ancient weapon free, he suddenly released his grip and jumped away with a protest of pain as a bright white light filled the room.
Beonen stared in shock at his fingers, which had been badly burned. In the few seconds this distraction provided, Aisen crept forward a few inches and turned to face his brother. He kept himself upright by sitting with his back against a pillar. Beonen looked around, surveying the floor in search of a weapon, of which there were several scattered about. He found a sword, Temet’s arming sword, the one that had been all but completely destroyed, and picking it up, he began his final walk. Beonen raised the weapon high in the air, in preparation to bring it down, point first, into his Aisen’s chest.
Feeling helpless, Aisen looked around in desperation, and felt at his sides with his hands. He was too weak to move from where he was, but the fingers of his right hand found faint hope as they curled around the hilt of the Edorin Sigil Blade. The sword rested on the ground near his right hip, still casting light throughout the room. The ancient weapon had burned more than just Beonen’s hand. It had completely incinerated the leather and wood casement that had bound it, reducing the material to feathery burnt ashes. Despite this, the weapon felt cool to the touch in Aisen’s hand.
It was Aisen’s arm that swung the blade that killed his brother, but he would forever remember the moment as if someone or something else had guided his hand. From where he sat positioned on the ground, he should have had no leverage with which to do much damage, but the blade cut cleanly halfway through Beonen’s torso, and stopped only after Beonen dropped his own sword, letting if fall harmlessly to the ground. “I am sorry, Aisen,” were Beonen’s last words before he died, a glimpse of the awe with which he had always regarded his older brother, finally showing through at the end.
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