In case you’ve never noticed, I like sharp things, things that have trajectories and pack a punch: Bows, shotguns, a Walter P38, machetes, hunting knives, swords, phasers, lightsabers, really good mixed martial artists. If the unfinished bathroom is my sanctum and office, then my closet is more of an armory. At last count fifteen knives, a machete, a hunting knife, and my archery equipment riddle my dresser drawers, the wall, and the shelves. It may be strange, but I have my favorites.
A weapon says a lot about the person who carries it. It becomes a signature and a symbol. The first time I read the Lord of the Rings I fell in love with the characters, but there was one I understood and could relate to. I admired the strength, tenacity, and courage with which she approached life. Every other major character had great power, named swords, elven rope. She was the forgotten one; she didn’t count and could blend in with her uncle’s soldiers unnoticed in absence or presence. Then she took a sword and slew one of the most horrific arrogant villains in the story. Her sword isn’t named and she doesn’t end up with a prince, but she lives and marries a good man.
When I was younger, my mom took me to a store that had booths for different small businesses. One of those businesses was a weapons smith. There was a beautiful hand and a half Crusader’s sword. It reminded me of Eowyn’s and I wanted it more than anything. As a twelve year old, my mother wasn’t keen on letting me buy a lethal weapon, so I resigned myself to enjoying the honesty of her character.
The weapon she wielded was the strength of her love for her family and her country. She was loyal and strong.