Greatness by Travis Anderson

“Do you know when this blade was forged?” asked the elder pride leader. His voice echoed over the crackling fires at his sides and the hushed voices of their audience. The scent of smoke clung to the carved wood of the hut, the shadowed interior frightened away by both sun and candlelight. The old warrior stared at the younger lion, his body rimmed by a haze of smoke and wrapped in a dull red cloak, waiting for a response. “Well?”

“I do not,” answered the lion with hesitation. He quickly grew bold with anger, however. “Even so, the sword is mine by right through all I have done for our people!” His voice shook the air itself, the warrior’s shout causing the smaller fires to flicker and dance. All sound but the popping of burning wood settled to the floor of the meeting place. They stared at each other in silence, the younger lion soon turning his eyes away under the scrutiny of his chief.

“You are a fool,” said the leader with a calm tone. “You are also young and filled with a desire to prove yourself.” The elder rose to his full height and outstretched his arm, the point of the blade pressed underneath the youth’s chin. This pulled the Lion’s eyes back to his leader but it was not concern that covered his face, only quiet rage held back with a clenched jaw.

“That is a good enough trait on the battlefield, my son,” continued the elder. “But here, before me, it makes you look like a simple child throwing a tantrum.” This brought a quiet laugh from the gathered crowd. It soon faded under the glare of their leader, his head turning back to address his son.

“This sword was made during the Great War. Its steel has severed many a Hyena’s head since its creation and our kin have tasted its fury since the Pacts were broken.” He tilted the metal to better catch the orange light, the steel gleaming against the brightness. His son said nothing as the sharpened tip poked a shallow gash into his neck. “It is a weapon meant for greatness,” whispered the white maned leader, eyes transfixed on the sword.

“Then why do you carry it, father,” spat the youth, a thin line of blood running down his neck. “What greatness resides in the frail and crippled?” A sudden burst of pain shot through his skull when the last words passed his lips. His sight went momentarily black before returning through a jumble of lights and multiple, ghostly images of the man before him. When his vision returned he saw his father staring down at him with an inferno in his wide eyes. The sword, he noticed, was no longer at his throat but held across his father’s chest, the point lifted to his left shoulder. The pommel sat at his hip, fresh blood dotting the wood.

“I have done more for our people than you will ever hope to accomplish,” said the leader, voice steady and low but dripping with rage. “This weapon is the sign of a great leader and all who follow me know the truth in it. I carry it because it is my right and I will continue to carry it until my death.” He brought the sword down to rest against his son’s neck. “That is when it will be yours and by then you may deserve it.” They looked hard into each others eyes for a long, quiet moment before the elder pulled the blade back from the wounded Lion. “But that is not today.”

The old warrior sat and placed the blade across his lap, eyes never leaving his son. “Now go, before I bring its true might down on you.”

The young lion looked at the man before him, head throbbing under the pain of his father’s rebuke. His eyes glaring into the pride leaders he stood and spoke. “Yes, father.”

He walked out of the hut with blood coating his fur from the shallow wounds. Only the sound of crackling wood followed him as he departed from his father’s disapproving gaze.