The Fighter

"Oh, gods damn it."

That frustratingly smug chuckle I'd grown used to over the years rang out once more in mockery of my efforts. My owner, such as he was, was impossibly arrogant. I had been able to see it in him from the moment we met. The problem was, his arrogance was vindicated by skill. He had acquired me, rather insultingly, as a joke. Why not take a sword that cursed its wielder with bad luck, he had asked, then boasting that all I would do in a fight was make things a little less one-sided. Much to my chagrin, he wasn't wrong. Challengers came and went, believing that maybe this time they stood a chance. And for every man or woman that dared, he added another victory to his seemingly flawless reputation. It was only a year or two after he had attained me that I decided he was due to be taken down from his high horse. That first time was possibly the greatest of my regrets.

I had assumed the form of a tender young woman that he kept a picture of in a locket. I'd seen him look fondly at it so many times by then that I could practically see the girl in my sleep. It was as he dined on a late lunch that I'd appeared, my stride confident, and the blade I so often appeared as by my side. He did not seem terribly perturbed by my presence.

"I presume you are the curse inhabiting my blade?" I faltered for a fraction of a second. He had never made any acknowledgement of me before, treating my existence as some manner of jest, a tale spun around an old sword to sway him to buy it. I steeled myself. If he was indeed so observant, I would have to remain focused to claim him as I wished.

"I am. And I mean to duel you for the insult you give both myself and your opponents." The sword, a living extension of myself, practically materialized from my trim waist to my hand as it suddenly held mere centimeters away from his throat. He wasn't even shaken.

"Very well, sword. But as you've served me so reliably until now, I propose a game. The winner is allowed to set a term by which the loser must abide." A single finger of his pushed at the edge of the double-sided blade, shifting it away nonchalantly. He rose, his movements calm and composed. I tensed, waiting for him to unsheathe the dagger he kept at his belt. If an enemy particularly bored him, he would cast me aside and use that smaller, frailer weapon instead. As he stood at full height, his pompous smirk crossed his lips. He was ready to begin.

It was a mistake to believe that I had been ready for him, however. Faster than I'd ever seen him fight, he had me by the hilt, twisting against my thumb and wrenching me in two. The shock from separation was all he needed to loop one arm under my chin while the other wound behind, swift pressure constricting my airways painfully. It was only for a couple seconds that he held me up like that, but it was all he needed to prove that he had won. I was given a month of servitude as his accompaniment, an alluring eye-catcher to make others jealous and myself furious.

And once more he had beaten me. I'd lost track of the number of times I'd been defeated. Each time, he seemed to find some new and humiliating way to use me, but only ever making it last for a month or two. Every now and then, he'd revisit a favorite, making sure to take full advantage of my time spent in that way. Sometimes he had me appear as a girl, typically of varying tastes. Others he'd let me remain a boy, although he would insist that as his prize, I should at least look attractively young. Though not one in a position to question or judge his habits, the times when I was allowed to remain in my preferred gender were the more demeaning. I could only dread what he had in mind for me this time.

"Sword," I grit my teeth at the condescending tone. He knew my proper name, having coerced me into telling him some time ago. He never used it, on the grounds that I hadn't earned that much from him yet. I turned from where I'd been shoved, facing the wall, his dagger embedded inches from my face. The outfit he held was ridiculous, something he had no doubt purchased in his many travels. The base seemed to be a black dress, with a scandalously low neckline. The skirt had layers of cloth, white and frilly at the bottom, with a similar affair descending from the collar to the belt. "I think this time, for your insolence, you can assume a more womanly figure and carry out whatever tasks I desire. This is to be your uniform. I'll give you a month this time to think about what you've done, so you might continue to reconsider opposing me. In the meantime, I don't believe I stretched properly before that bout, so for your first task, I could use a good massage to make sure I properly loosen up."

"Of course. I'll get right on that." I growled, filling out the dress as I slipped it on. I rather hated how it felt, knowing that he chose servants attire and had it prepared just for me. It made my blood boil.

"I'll get right on that... what? Do keep proper decorum for your place, Sword." He shrugged off his windbreaker, revealing the corded muscles brought from years of hard work. I set my hands on them, kneading with the minimum gentleness I could get away with.

"I'll get right on that, Master." I all but hissed, leaning over him. My hands worked a bit more angrily, but I couldn't harm him. Our agreements stopped me. But they didn't stop me from making my threats clear as day. "Keep making me do things like this, Master. One day, I will crush you. And when I do, you will have all of eternity trapped within my sword to find out how what you've done to me feels like."