Title: Choosing the Tool By Which to Shape Destiny

The first thing that caught her eye was the bright red cloth lying on a low table.

She walked toward it, entranced. She picked it up, and shook it out, revealing a brilliant scarlet cloak.

Red Riding Hood, she thought instantly, and then hastily and messily folded the cloak back.

Red Riding Hood had, contrary to what toned-down children's tales told, had been raped by the wolf she'd encountered in the woods, and that had been why, desperate for safety, she had run to her grandmother's only to doom both their fates….

No. She did not want this talisman.

Next along the table was a gilded gold-bronze bracelet, fashioned into the shape of a roiling snake. A cobra.

Symbol of the pharaohs, protectors of the ancient Egyptian kings, of the Living Horus. It was imbued with virtue of prayer, and immortality.

She had reached to touch it, when, at the last moment, her hand slipped, and bypassed the talisman without touching it, her gaze drawn to the last of the items on the table.

A sword, weathered and beaten. A symbol of power, as swords often were. She picked it up, and as she raised it to eye level, time on the sword seemed to travel backwards, healing its chips, mending its rust, restoring the cold metal to its former beauty and glory.

This sword would chip in time and usage. Unlike the cloak, it was a weapon, fashioned both to protect and to damage, but without drawing garish garrulous attention at the sight of it. No, whatever stares she would draw from this sword would be because of whatever she'd done with it. And unlike the Cobra bracelet, the weapon was fallible, and called on her own power, rather than faith in bigger and higher beings, to the offense. And unlike the bracelet, with the sword she would not be caught in the trappings of its promise of immortality—for she knew that many would mistaken it for invincibility, and unknowing, be dragged through the cycles of death and rebirth, never knowing rest. The sword's legacy was hers to make, the sword promised neither glory nor anonymity, leaving it to he whatever she would make of herself wielding the sword.

Yes.

She twirled it in her fingers, slashing at an invisible enemy, the sword joining with her energy, melding its weight and length to her, the cool magic barely a shiver in her senses.

This is fitting.

The gatekeeper was at the door when she exited, eyeing the sword she held.

So. She chose the weapon, not the armor nor the defense. And yet…

His trained eye raked the pommel, and the crossguard.

She did not associate it with Excalibur. Just a simple weapon, equipped with some minor defense magics and fitted to her.

He smiled. And yet the sword had opened itself for modifications. She could add offensive magics to it, if she wished. And the sword was still alive, alert to any changes in its most recent wielder, and adjusting accordingly. A versatile, adaptive, and growing weapon, not laden with glory, just a tool for her to use as she shaped her future and destiny.

He met her eyes, and handed her the scabbard he held in his hands. "A wise choice, my lady."