Infinite Shards

by Moproblems Moharmoney

Blueblood's sword

The blade was a paradoxical thing, sixteen-year-old Blueblood found. It was hideously ugly, a huge slab of dark iron, thirty-five inches long before you even got to the hilt. Not only that, there had been zero finesse in its design. Just a burning need to make something big, crude, and heavy. All the better to batter whatever poor fool managed to get in your way. No, Blueblood decided, this was not a thing for elegance or chivalry.

Yet despite all this, the damnable thing was sitting pride of place in the family parlour, reverently held in glass on a velvet pillow. Guests would be discretely shuttled here, small talk shifted to history and family, then inevitably 'Oh did you know my ancestor used this very sword at Waterloo?'. It was all rather vulgar, especially considering the other (superior) relics they had on hand. Of course, there was one more reason for Blueblood to hate the 1796 heavy cavalry sword, a much more pertinent reason than it being the crown jewel in his parent's kingdom.

It was haunted.

---

Silence blankets the classroom, Crystal prep takes pop quizzes rather seriously and Blueblood is thankful for the quiet. Math was difficult at the best of times, whilst whatever inane ramblings his fellow students engaged in would most definitely make the climb from 'c minus' to 'b plus' impossible. That (in his own humble opinion) was unacceptable.

“Bloody hell lad, your Pa must be pissing gold if he's ready to waste it on sending a stuffed shirt like you to school!”

Then there was....it. Six foot tall, with an angular, tanned face and long black hair, a deep scar proudly displayed on its right cheek added a rogueish charm to the figure's raggedy appearance. That was despite how the rough wound pulled at its right eye, giving the thing's face a mocking expression when relaxed. Of course, Blueblood was never quite sure when the ghost wasn't mocking him, to be honest.

“Quiet,” he whispers, black ink dancing across the page as formulae after formulae were tested and then rejected in equal measure. Calculus, why did it have to be calculus?

It had been there for three months now, not as a floating apparition of terror or campfire tale. No, just an eternally griping Englishman. A coarse one at that if its tone and foul language said anything, not to mention the accent. The spectre's dress sense didn't do much to dispel any notion of roughness either, a hodgepodge of military uniforms all dating around the second war of independence.

“Christ, to think I killed all those bloody French for it to end like this?!”

An idle thought in the first week had suggested something rather unpleasant. It (and everything the spook suggested) were refuted with typical Blueblood swagger and statesman-like diplomacy though. There was no way he was related to that thing after all. No, ridiculous, impossible. The Blueblood lineage may have only reasserted its natural dominance at the end of the nineteenth century, but his ancestors most definitely had more poise and...decency, yes decency, than this ectoplasmic stalker.

It was probably some ruffian run-through on the way back from battle, maybe a deserter? Yes, definitely some misbegotten soul haunting the weapon of its killer. It made as much sense as anything did these days. The friendship games (in retrospect) were certainly an eye-opener...

“You need to carry the three,” it grunts, hand momentarily phasing through hardwood before dirty fingernails point towards the offending problem.

A delicate eyebrow raises, fountain pen halting in its excursions.

“I may not have a fancy education like you lad, but practical experience teaches a man.” It looks away, almost wistful for a moment before returning with a hard glare.

“Really now?” the youth's sarcastic voice little more than an exhale.

No one noticed the empty chair next to Blueblood squeak, a phantom weight manifesting suddenly as his personal heckler took a seat.

“Ran a farm for twenty years, book-keeping weren't great but did the job,” it picked at some unseen, unfathomable, spectral morsel in a mouth full of surprisingly good teeth for a ghost. “Colonel in the British army if that helps, twenty-two years.”

As numbers and dates began to add up, a visible sweat appeared on the teen despite the expensive air conditioning Crystal prep insisted was necessary for every room.

“Joined up about your age, maybe a bit younger?” blue eyes inspect the youth, “You ever think about enlisting?”

Shoulder-length blond hair shifts, a perfect, expensive, styling ruined with only the lightest of shakes. Fragile, gossamer, just like his rapidly burning worldview.

“W-who are you?”

Ice cold fingers capture his hand in a loose shake, it's brief and awkward thanks to the ever-present teacher and students, but the sentiment is clear.

“Names Sharpe, Richard Sharpe. Good to see you're willing to listen now, eh lad.”

Author's Note:

Blueblood, the rich, vain, entitled, pompous jackass related to nigh-immortal badass Col Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles?

Sure, why not?

Canonically speaking, Sharpe's common law wife is a French Viscountess (despite her title being abolished, it's still a notable thing for social climbers), his daughter marries an unnamed British aristocrat and he himself is adorned with the Order of Saint Vladimir (2nd class) which ironically gives him rights of Russian hereditary nobility. I could easily see an American family with means digging up historical nuggets like that (and Sharpe's own incredible military service) and parading it around.

For those curious, Blueblood is descended from Sharpe's son, Patrick Lassan. Thus making his families myths hilariously full of shit.

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

A fascinating idea pile. Looking forward to seeing what else makes its way here.