Log in

No account? Create an account
beth writing 30 days without

FIC: One of Many, PG, written for the SGA LFWS #4, Round 1


Title: One of Many
Author: To be revealed
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Genre(s):character study, angst
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Prompt for the Round: Write a fic in first person using an inanimate object as POV. Must feature at least one member from the team but it can also have anyone else. The fic must start with "I am".


I am one of many, but I am the favored one.

I have done his bidding on dozens of occasions. I have loosed his bonds and bought him his freedom. I have defended him. I have let the blood of his enemies. I have prepared the meal he shares with his comrades. I have helped him ease a friend into the peace of death.

For that he keeps me close, safely hidden from view nestled against him like a lover. We are as one. I am perfectly balanced and perfectly fit to his hand. His touch is sure and certain. When he throws me I fly straight and land true. My bone handle has been worn smooth by the caress of his fingers. My steel is burnished bright and razor sharp, lovingly honed to a perfect edge. Sometimes he lets me ride in the wild tangle of his hair, undetected by even the most astute observer but usually I lie close to his heart.

I did not always belong to him. I was crafted by a master knife smith on a planet I’ve long forgotten the name of. As I lay on the master's work table, he came to our village, wounded, angry, and exhausted from running. My maker gave him shelter, tended his wounds, drank wine with him and shared stories. But he would not stay in our village. There was a desperation about him, a need to keep moving. There was also defiance in him and an unimaginable will to live. I have never known such a passion for life, even when life meant constantly looking over his shoulder, never being able to rest, always hunted, always ready for the fight. At times his life seemed so hopeless. My maker gave me to him along with his wishes for a safe journey.

It is odd, I know, for one such as myself to long for peace. I, who have, in violence, tasted the blood of so many. But in his hands I have learned that there can be more to living than cutting flesh. He used me once to carve a small whistle, for a little boy in a rare village where he dared to stay for several weeks. He was different there. I heard him laugh for the first time. The little boy who received the whistle laughed too, as did the child’s mother. She seemed taken by him and he by her. He warned her that his presence would mean disaster for her village, but she begged him to stay. The only time I have ever been separated from him was when he lay with her in the tangled wrappings she called a bed.

But it ended. Suddenly. She was he first to die when they came for him. They always came for him. The tall pale ones with the flowing white hair that sucked the life from all things human. Had I a heart, it would have broken. Instead, I helped end the life of the pale one who destroyed her. I opened a gaping gash across its neck and felt its lifeblood wash over me, heard the gurgling breath from its severed throat. It was a baptism, a renewal of my commitment to protect him and all of his.

Once again we were running. Always moving, never stopping. And so we have come to this place. It is not so different from all the others except for the fierce sun that blisters even his tough skin. Here we take refuge yet again to briefly rest and hopefully move on before he is found one more time. My blade has a keen edge and I am resting, as he tries to rest. I do not know what thoughts might visit him at times like this. I only know that I will always be prepared to defend him.

My thoughts are my own. He will never know of my commitment to him, because I am, after all, just one of many knives. Had I a heart, I would hope that some day there would be peace for him. That perhaps some day he could return to the world he lost. Or find a new world where there is no need to run. Perhaps, on that day, I will carve only whistles and never again the muscle and bone of his enemies.

But until then, I will lie quietly, sheathed close to his heart. I can feel the rhythm of its beat, my blade warmed by the touch of his skin. I am patient and I am always ready. I will wait until he needs me or until the day he needs me no more.

I am one blade of many, but I am the favored one.