He practices with it as he grows. He grows quicker than his peers, because he is half-human, but it is still so slow. It takes him another twenty years before he can properly swing it, even though he realizes eventually that it is strangely light for a blade its size.

He gets good with it, eventually. Very, very good.

It is the prettiest sword. It's perfectly balanced, its edge never dulls, and whatever that glossy black blade is made of, it proves impossible to scratch or tarnish; even the delicate golden filigree remains pristine no matter how many times he accidentally bangs it against a rock. For all that, though, it doesn't actually seem to be magic. At least, not in any detectable way. At least, not at first...

It may not have a magic aura, but something doesn't add up. Tintin knows enough by now to realize that a sword like this is not simply abandoned in the forest. He should have found a body next to it, at the very least. But the fact of the matter is that it is a very nice sword, and it is his, and he loves it very much. He practices with it every day, and polishes it even though it does not really need polishing, and he would not trade it for the world.

Besides, this is not the only inexplicable thing that has ever happened to him. Inexplicable things happen to him on a fairly regular basis.

The first thing the sword ever feels is the shock of impact and the taste of blood on his blade.

It's a good feeling.

There are other good feelings after that. Being drawn and swung is exhilarating; being polished and sheathed is restful. The world is a place of sleepy timelessness and pleasant sensations.

Slowly, he awakens to his wielder's sensations as well as his own. The feeling of motion, first, and then touch, and taste, and if he were awake enough to have expectations he'd expect that was all the senses there were, but he's wrong; there's hearing, too, and sight. Sight is a surprise. His first clear memory of having thoughts about his own experience of the world is being surprised by sight.

The next surprise, not long after that one, is when he starts getting echoes of thought and emotion.

Fondness. The thrill of sparring. An unexpected opening, a quick, elegant slash, the taste of blood (just barely a taste, barely a papercut).

"-parry, Eskandar, parry! You're lucky I'm better at this than you are!"

     "Bite me, Tinuvian!"

"Hit me, Vanellon!"

Parry, parry, dance out of the way, slash again. This time it doesn't quite connect.

Oh what good feelings these are!! What lovely and pretty and delightful feelings!!

Later...

"Well, my friend, it would seem we are needed," Tintin says, patting the blade on his hip. "There is a dire wolf, and I am known to kill wolves, and I suppose that is enough for some people to decide that the problem is mine to solve. What they would do without me, I do not know."

Words... words are a thing. There are thoughts in them. It's easier to hear the thoughts, overall, but he's starting to catch some of the words too.

Light gleams from his filigreed hilt. He thinks he will like solving this problem. He thinks he likes being a friend.

"Perhaps when they reward me for my heroic efforts I will take you to a wizard and have you enchanted," he muses, advancing among the trees. "You are a lovely sword, but the maintenance of one's blade cannot be neglected."

Enchanted? What an odd idea... anyway, he doesn't need maintenance, he's perfect.

"Ah, how indignant and vain you are," Tintin laughs.

"...I do not think that entirely followed. Mon épee, have you influenced me in some way?"

Influenced...? Oh! Is his Tintin starting to get echoes of his feelings? That's so good! Friendship!!

"Well, that certainly did not follow. But it is good to know that you consider me a friend... you would, I suppose, either consider me a very dear friend or a very dear enemy."

Friend!! Friend friend friend. Good friend. Best friend!! The best out of all imaginable friends!

One gets the impression that if swords could hug people, this one would be trying.

"I suppose I cannot argue with that. I do not know if I would be so sanguine about having been in someone else's possession... though perhaps I do not know my own mind."

He strokes his sword's pommel absently. "If you are so clever that you can be friendly, perhaps you need a name?"

The sword is still kind of shaky on the concept of words, let alone names, and isn't sure what he might need one for, but maybe it will make more sense when he has more practice with this whole language thing. Sight took a long time to start making sense too.

"Well, you do not need to have a name, I suppose, but it would be convenient for me to give you one if I am to explain you to anyone else. How would you feel if I called you Zarhan?"

That's some sounds. He likes the sounds, he thinks. It's hard to be sure. He likes the way his Tintin says them, anyway.

"Zarhan, mon petit épee, you are so possessive. I suppose it is only fair, when I am so possessive of you."

Once again he rubs Zarhan's pommel. "Can you feel it when I pet you? Or should I beam affection in your general direction? Perhaps I will do that anyway." He makes his best effort.

He can, he can feel it when Tintin pets him!! Affection-beaming is also good, though. He beams affection back. (There is a lot of it.)

It is at this point that a fuckhuge wolf leaps out of the trees.

Tintin draws his sword and dances away from the beast in one fluid motion. "Putain de merde de bordel-"

!!

Suddenly he's all focus. Protecting Tintin is the most important thing, and also fighting is—immersive, it pulls all his attention together into the things that are happening.

This is good, because a lot of things are happening very quickly. Tintin is slashing and dodging and being bitten in the leg (a flash of searing pain that coasts into a deep throbbing agony) and swearing loudly and swinging Zarhan in a close-in arc that sweeps the wolf's head off its shoulders.

He stands there, panting. "I did not enjoy that."

Oh, wow, how about that. Zarhan did! Except for the part where Tintin got bit, Tintin getting hurt is terrible. But all the rest of it was very good.