My Sword is Rusted
The boy held the sword in his hand. It was rusted and the iron was hidden. He saw the dazzling swords of the other knights.
‘What has caught your sight, my boy?’ questioned the master watching the boy gaze at his reflection formed on the surface of the other knight’s sword.
‘Nothing master,’ said the boy as he put down the shining sword and picked up his.
‘Do you think it is unfair that you have been given the old, broken one, dont you?’
The boy could not answer. The master had read his mind, but the little boy did not utter a single word. He turned his eye away, trying to evade the master.
‘You have no say whether your sword is shining and sharp, or it aint,’ said the wise master and waited for the younger apprentice to understand. The boy felt a fang of irony in his heart.
‘But what about the battles of my life, master?’ he said breaking his silence. ‘What if my sword isnt sharp enough to pierce through the battle and lead me to victory, to set me apart?’ he continued.
The master looked at his student, the striking of the swords could be heard. And the boy stood waiting for the master to reply.
‘It is you who shall pierce through the heart of the battles you shall fight. If you may, your sword is an arsenal. If you may, you may sharpen your rusted sword, because it shall protect you, but it is you who shall use it on your way to glory. If you may, my boy, the sword is a mere arsenal, victory rests upon you,’ said the master as he gazed into the eyes of the perplexed little boy.
The Wordcastle 