The Loyal Servant, Karkaroff the Seer

"This sword..."

Aberforth stared blankly at the sword on the stone table. The cracks spreading outward from its tip had clothed it in a new garb with a strange, unique charm. Along with the thump, thump of the pierced heart, the slightly trembling hilt was like a second hand that could never move on to the next tick, struggling inside the cage of a broken clock.

Some of the cracks were unusually wide, even forming sizeable angles. It seemed to have once been a shattered remnant, collected piece by piece by someone and put back together according to their own understanding. Several huge rubies adorned the blade like its entrails, and also like dead eyes.

The cracks widened and closed with the beating of the heart. It was so fragile, fragile enough to bring a special beauty to everyone who saw it, as though this were the most beautiful and most breakable work of art in the world. Aberforth looked at the blade, and the smell of old newspapers wrapped around his mind. He felt as if he had been brought back to the years when the sword was forged, when ore beneath the frozen earth was refined, and crimson steel was hammered into shape in raging fire.

"I recognize it!"

Alphard strode forward, planted both hands on the table, and fixed his eyes on the patterns on the blade. After a moment of silence, he turned his head and said excitedly, "That's right, it's that sword!"

"Which one?"

Finish your damn sentence, would you? Aberforth was so angry he wanted to stamp his feet, but he feared the tremor would make the already fragile sword fall completely apart. Before he could press further, Alphard excitedly took out a photograph and pointed at the people on it, showing it to