The cold air stung as he was pulled free. There was a certain smoothness to his movement. It was elegant, efficient, and entirely cold. He was certainly not ordinary. Those sharp features and razor sharp edge defined his purpose. The black that coated him gleamed in the moonlight. From head to toe he seemed to be covered with patterns that seem to shift. They glowed with an uneasy brightness. A steady dull pulse of light that followed some unheard song. The surroundings seem to pass by at incredible speeds. Although he could not see, there was an innate sense of where he was and what was around him. A small bubble of influence that he inherently knew was reality. The time for his purpose was drawing close as the the surroundings slowed to a halt. There were walls around him. He was inside some building. He felt the breeze of the cold air behind. He must have came through the window. The pressure built around him. It was a familiar feeling, one of coming dread. He knew he had to perform the duty required of him. It was his only purpose so far, and he had done it so many times before. It was a cold kind of ecstasy and guilt. How many times had he felt the warmth of life cover him. That feeling of fire intermixing with his cold hardened self. But at the same moment, he would feel a pain so cutting and sharp, his would mind scream in anguish. Such is the fate of his kind. Those who were cursed to perform what was needed. The moment was at hand. He felt them. Their heartbeats were soft, almost indistinct. He could almost see their chests rise up and down. The pressure was now almost unbearable around him. He knew what was coming next. The bliss and agony would begin anew. Their hearts no longer beat. They were now silent, vanished into the dark room. It matched his own. The warmth of their lives slowly faded from his body. And soon he felt colder than ever. He felt each droplet hit the ground as he hovered above them. With one fluid movement he swung for a moment and stopped. He was instantly dried. He finally heard the first words of the night, "You've done well, Nerivim. Its time to go back to sleep." Nerivim was gently caressed back into his scabbard. It was his home. It was the only place that could hold him. It was cold, dark, and there was never true slumber within. He could hear the screams of the ancient past to the soft utterances of the newly ended. It was a prison of his own making for the sins he could never redeem. Nerivim would have laughed if he could. This age was no different than before. There would always be a need to kill. The hope for the silence of true death would never come for Nerivim. He was a blade of the finest steel, blacker than night, sharper than any razor, and colder than death. He knew not how he came to be or how long he was like this, but sometimes in the deepness of his soul, he felt he had a life. The memories were sparse, but he hoarded them like jewels. The feeling of sunlight. The sight of green. The touch of a gentle hand. These things kept him sane. They were an anchor to some distant unknowable past. But he did not touch them now. He was not worthy. Beyond the confines of his prison, he could almost hear, "Two are slain, but we have so much more to kill." The feelings of dread resurfaced. It was so long since Nerivim felt this corrupted. There were so many wielders, but this current man's ambition and evil surpassed them all. Nerivim may be one of the most powerful weapons known to mankind, but his true potential will never be unlocked by a man of this caliber. This man will never hear the voice of Nerivim and thus will never truly wield him. Nerivim wondered how long before he finds a new wielder. Perhaps a girl. He probably hadn't had a female wielder in hundreds of years. A strange kind of tiredness washed over him. The prison was definitely working it's magic. He began to sleep and the screams were as terrible as he first heard them.