The sword's hilt rested heavily in her palm, foreign yet close, like an old friend that hasn't been seen in months. That was what the blade was to the woman- an old friend. Through her years of mental turmoil, she had rejected the thought of being a fighter, bending to the culture that she hated. The culture of pacifists and war-haters that she had long since rejected, but in those three years of torture, she had become like them. Sickened by even the thought to weld her trusted weapon.
She lifted the blade, through those months she had only trained with a dulled or wooden weapon. Her skills were still sharp, but she couldn't bring herself to lift her sword. Her own sword, the one that she had had since she was a child of sixteen. The one that her brother-in-law and sister had gifted her. She twisted her wrist to turn the longsword, to admire the steel. It was like any other, the only difference being the intricate design in the hilt, something she had missed.
The woman released a long exhale, closing her eyes a moment and she when she opened them she extended her arm out to point the blade forward, twisting to stand sideways as a small smirk tugged on her lips. No longer did a weak, broken woman haunt these halls.
Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from tiredness. The shock of relief up her arm when she finally lowered it to rest was not something she regretted, but rather reminded her farther about who she was. She was a fighter, she could handle pain. To the Void with the beliefs of her culture, to the Void with being the woman sitting on the windowsill, allowing others to fight her wars for her. The cocky smirk on her face returned and she sheathed the longsword at her side before speaking aloud to herself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she did.
"Welcome back, Juliette."
