Falco had waited as long as he was able, it was now only about half an hour before dawn and he needed to see his sword in the moonlight. He started to slowly draw his sword from its scabbard. As soon as just the smallest sliver of blade was visible his eyes were drawn to it. Falco suppressed a gasp as he saw it, the blade seemed to be glowing with its own internal light. It was more beautiful as he had thought it could be. Carefully, relishing every moment, he continued to slowly draw the shining blade further from its sheath. He felt his excitement rising as more and more of the blade became visible. Falco's hand started to shake, so he stopped and took a deep breath. After steadying himself, he continued to slowly bring his sword out into the moonlight. As more and more of the blade emerged his hand started to move faster. Falco realised that he was holding his breath. Then suddenly the slight curve at the tip of the blade appeared and his sword was free. Falco let the air out of his lungs in a long slow sigh. Truly his sword was a thing of beauty, he could imagine nothing that could compare to it. He slowly turned it over and back again, watching how it glowed in the light of the moon, savouring the sight. He couldn't believe how lucky he was to have a blade like this. Poets often talked of the beauty of the moon, but here was something that put the moon to shame. He looked up through the trees at the sickle moon hanging in the dark morning sky. “You are nothing,” he thought, “This is where the true beauty in the world lies.” Smiling, he lifted his sword up to the moon, holding it alongside the curved shape in the sky, comparing the two. As he gazed in wonder at the beauty of his sword, he was suddenly pushed forward by the mass of men behind him as they started marching.
“What?” thought Falco, “Who?”, the wonderment and beauty of his sword was pushed from his mind as he remembered the three hundred soldiers that were under his command. And the signal for them to advance... raising his sword.