by David Andrés Alíx
An ivory handle bulging like a wine cask. Tapered down at both ends, to the crossguard and to the nut, where a precious triad of ruby, emerald and turquoise encircle, inlaid and bordered with wire of yellow bullion. The mirror smooth surface of off white, with a patina of persimmon.
Beyond the crossguard, where commerce is done, lies a blade of origin somewhere in Damascus, where infamous swords were forged. The length, a hand span of black steel, decorated with her innate in-concentric lines like the contours of a topographic map. Painstaking forging of the tang perfectly press-fitted; married to the handle that it may be one, wearing an etching in Arabic, which when translated reads, “1 of 1”.
Fashioned for a single task centuries before she would be called to duty, but when summoned she did prove to be ready. No tool before or since filled so perfectly its assigned role. Not a spoon that feeds you stew. Not a goblet for the wine bouquet. These are desperately deficient.
She was an idea that in these days will realize its fruition. An irresistible force so intense that the humble target, who has all his life heard of her in whispers, blissfully surrenders instead of resisting. He knows that her work is perfect. She will not fail. He will have a glance of his own beating heart, before closing his eyes for the long slumber, without feeling a bit of pain, without a shudder.
It’s all he could think of every moment of every day, since he was aware that on his chest lie her crosshairs. He died well, without fear, and without a sound. He was not afraid. He honored his own by being silent. He honored his God, and he honored the Perfect Dagger. And now that she has accomplished her purpose, she lies with him clasped within his hands forever.
The story does not ring true, however. He died, yes. He was silent, yes. He was unafraid, yes. But there was no honor in it whatsoever. He was silent only because he grew weary of calling out, and not receiving an answer. Loosing his faith in the idea that a man is free to feel, and do as he pleases. He was unafraid because it was what he begged for; long slumber. He gathered that it was the only way to quiet his desire.
That was her name
He only honored Desire The Perfect Dagger
And for this all else was dishonored