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It weighs more than he imagines a sword can. He holds it with both hands, the length of the blade nearly matching his own height. Arthur had always thought his father a big man, but holding this, holding Excalibur, he was even more. In his father's hands, it was only a sword. For Arthur, it is the weight of the world. "Lift your arms, Arthur." He does so immediately, needing to learn the ways of his blade, the lines it scratches in flesh, the hungry way it cries out for blood. Excalibur is forced from Briton fires, from Briton ores. It speaks the language of this land and guides Arthur's hand. The heavy ache pulls at the muscles in Arthur's arms, eventually bringing the tip of the sword back to the ground. His body is drenched in sweat and he can tasted blood mixed on his lips. His instructor stares at him with unbridled awe, his hand doing little to staunch the flow of blood he has called forth. The weight of the world takes a man strong enough to hold it. Arthur watches the blood gleam against the steel and nods. His father was a big man. Arthur will be a giant.
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