Dxd: A demon Among Devils-Chapter 24: []:Arthur’s

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Finally, one of them answered and immediately he grasped at it, feeling the pulling in his mind as he imbued it into the sword, channeling the Persona slowly into the blade. Like flowing water the weapon began to change, the steel running down like molten wax as the entity within it sought to morph it into the aspect it represented. Soon, the blade barely resembled a blade at all.

He looked down at the altered sword and fought hard not to smile.

Her name had once been Clarent. Placed on the shoulders of righteous knights who knelt to receive their knighthoods from a legendary king. Carried in peacetime to attend joyous ceremonies and solemn occasions. And while she could not match the splendor and magnificence that was her sister sword, Excalibur, Clarent had her own unique beauty to her, a modest, humble beauty that drew men of dignity and loyalty from far away lands to gaze upon her majesty. For while Excalibur was the martial prowess of Arthur made in blade form, the long reach of his wrath taken shape, Clarent represented a different set of ideals entirely. Peace. Balance. Harmony. It was for that reason Arthur never took her into battle, never unsheathed her to draw blood, never used her as a sword should be used. She would forever be an ornament instead of a weapon, but that did not take away from her grandeur. A virgin blade embodied the soul of a kingdom that no longer needed war to guard its borders or blood to maintain the safety of its people.

And the people loved her for it.

It was the fervent hope of all within Camelot that one day Arthur would set aside Excalibur forever and take up Clarent in her stead, ruling through peace instead of war.

And then treacherous hands had snatched her from her blessed pedestal, and she had been carried into battle, breaking the most sacred of vows, the ring of steel her screams of horror, the clash of metal her cries of lamentation. And on the fields of Camlann, where dying horses churned the dirt into mud with their death throes, where brother fought brother and men tore at each other's throats, she had finally been sullied with the blood of the one she had meant to rule with.

Clarent died that day. Her holy form forever broken by that dark act, she had been twisted and warped until she became a tainted mockery of what she once was.

Treachery stained the heart black. With a blade it transformed it into something far more sinister. Where once her surface shone like polished quicksilver, blackened metal was there instead, forever dulled with the sin of betrayal. The once straightened edge, so perfect that it could have been balanced on a pinpoint, was now jagged with serrated fins, resembling the toothed maw of some primordial beast. Where the grip met cross-guard, a great jewel once rested, etched into the steel itself. The jewel was still there, but its brilliance had long ago faded, turned to murky dimness, and if one looked closely, one could see the slit-like pupil swimming underneath. A great, unblinking eye, forever cursed to remain open, forever haunted so that it may relive that moment of treachery over and over, all those hundreds of years ago.

The Black Sword. The Edge of Betrayal. The Coward's Blade.

"Thank you, Mordred," he murmured.

He looked up, to where his opponent was watching him with wide eyes.

"That is a demon sword," Kiba said, remarkably serene, remarkably calm despite what he had just witnessed, "You can summon demon swords."

It was an approximation of what he could do, but it was not far off the mark. He could summon demon swords. And heavenly swords. Or any sword for that matter, as long as he could call upon the Persona that once wielded it. And even if the Persona itself wielded no armaments, he could still imbue their power into a Nihil weapon, trapping their essence into the bladed prison for use.

"I do not recognize it," Kiba admitted, his gaze roaming across the weapon's surface. The perturbed expression on the normally cheerful boy's face spoke volumes of how affected he was by that admission. For one whose Sacred Gear involved the creation and maintenance of demon swords, not knowing a forbidden blade when it appeared in front of you was almost akin to sacrilege.

"Clarent," he supplied helpfully. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

"Mordred," the devil replied back automatically, "He used that sword to wound Arthur Pendragon."

Ah. So he knew. Kiba frowned.

"I have read the legends. I do not recall it becoming a demon sword."

He blamed the historians for that one. Humans always liked to embellish. It was that case with Excalibur, whose legend grew even after she was returned to the Lady of the Lake. Chroniclers saw the glory she had won in countless battlefields and chose to record that. Clarent had never been a war blade, had never slain dragons or vanquished impossible foes. Her existence had always been a quiet one. As a result, her significance, the ideals she represented, the tragedy that was ultimately her fate, was forgotten by all but a select few.

It was much the same for the rest of Arthurian legend. Even the tale of Mordred, whose deeds were counted among the blackest of treacheries, whose list of crimes grew every time his story was retold.

It had never been Mordred who truly betrayed Arthur. That honor belonged to Lancelot and Guinevere, whose forbidden love would eventually destroy the kingdom Arthur had bled to create. Mordred had just been there to pick up the pieces. Even on the field of Camlann, where Clarent's purity was shattered, Mordred had been reluctant to engage, stalling for time so that the temporary truce would gain weight. And when the battle seemed inevitable, it had never been Mordred who struck the first blow. Arthur's knights had charged first.

He knew this because Mordred had told him. He knew this because Arthur had confirmed it.

It was perhaps the most fitting of ironies that a blade so stained with treachery was used by one who had not wished for it in the first place.

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