only a replica | iris - day 1.5

She carried it like a violin bow.

She didn't know what she was doing, had never held a blade in her life, and had never swung at a single person with the intent to harm. She carried that sword like she carried her violin. She swung it like it was the violin bow. She didn't swing out of hatred; music doesn't come from hate. Even a deaf girl like me knows that much.

I watched her play that violin everyday. Everyday without fail she played and played and played until the stars began to shimmer in the night sky. I would fall asleep watching her play. Not because all I could do was watch her move to the music I could not hear, but because she looked so at ease. She'd close her eyes and I'd watch her fingers move over the strings, touching new notes and playing new rhythms.

It was beautiful. She was beautiful. It didn't matter that music was nothing more than strange movement over piano keys and violin strings to me; she made it beautiful.

She swung that sword the same way she drew that bow over her violin strings. And the same way she tapped the piano keys. The same way she smiled and the same way she tucked me in at night.

With love.

And that's why it was all so beautiful.

And that's why it's so easy to draw the blade, why I can remember a sword she held for only 6 days just as vividly as the violin she played for years.

Because I love her.

I pull out my silver crayon and begin with the blade. Long, elegant, sharp, heavy—my adept drawing skills suddenly becoming useful as I add the ridges at the tip and the fuller down the middle. When I reach the hilt I draw a circular pommel, make sure to add the forward-sloping arms of the crossguard with delicately placed quatrefoils on the ends.

As the sword shimmers and sparkles in the light the crayon in my hand simply disappears. And for a moment I can only stare. I can see my eyes reflected in the blade. My fingers grasp at the hilt, my hands shaking as I lift the sword into the air, stumble forward as the weight of it catches me off guard.

And I try to be brave. And I try to look like Jeq, try to hold it the way she did. Try to mimic the love I saw in her eyes, looking into the blade to see if I see her there.

But all I see is grief, pain, and sorrow.

I'm just a cheap replica of someone who was better.