The sword isn't changing. They know that, it's the same sword they've had for years, standard issue from the armory. Good, solid steel but nothing fancy.
The grip feels so good. They don't understand, it has always been...serviceable. They have learned to be sure of its weight and trust in the ways in which it rubs against their hand in awkward ways, learning to factor in the looseness of the too-thin handle. They know it isn't changing, they have measured. It remains regulation length.
The handle isn't too thin anymore. Swing after swing, the handle does not knock against the bone of their palm like it always has. It stays flush with the soft part of their palm. Even pressure. They feel the tip flicker as they swing, their wrist adding a whistling speed to the finest point of the blade. It's faster. They have to put it back in the sheath. What if someone sees.
They cannot help but shake as they lift it. The leather is dark, completely black until it catches the light and the warmth comes through, a hint of red, maybe brown, perhaps purple. Impossible to tell. Warm. Soft.
God, so soft. There must be a hardened leather core beneath the surface, it has the rigidity required by a scabbard, but when they life it with their hands it feels like nothing so much as the soft expanse of a lovers arm held gently, reverently, hopefully.
They shake their head. What are they thinking? This is absurd. They huff, breathing through the rising heat within them as they line the shining tip up with the entrance. God the leather is so thick in the interior. They've seen fancy scabbards before, nobles and dignitaries love to draw steel at the slightest provocation, they've been forced to be a glorified porter transporting more than one ancestral blade to the staff for maintenance and storage. Most of the good ones are lined with soft fur, something gentle that keeps the blade still and safe without allowing it to scrape or chip on anything hard. They've never seen one like this, the plush leather interior, the single, dark slit beckoning against their silver tip. Why are they shivering, this is ridiculous.
The tip slides in like nothing and in a huff, they hilt the blade in one smooth motion, and are desperately, terrifyingly grateful that the only things around to hear the noise they make are the horses.
They are, frankly, ashamed to expose even them.
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