"Sword?"

The word was a clarion call, a rallying cry, a thunderous drumbeat. It demanded attention like a sunrise over the ocean, like a star falling from the sky, like nothing in the whole world could possibly be more important right now. Her sword stirred from its vigil and wordlessly turned to face Her glory.

"Kiss me."

The words triggered movements ingrained on a level beyond volition. One of its knees bent. Its body tipped forward. With uncharacteristic gentleness, it pressed its lips against Her hand, kept them there for a second, and moved its head back up. Control over its body returned, but it remained where it was. It gazed up at Her brilliant smile, marveling at Her splendor while She cryptically regarded Her sword. Some time passed before She spoke again.

"What does 'kiss' mean to you, sword?"

The answer was sharp in its mind, but it waited, unmoving, quiet.

"You have permission to speak."

"To kiss is to press my lips to your hand, Your Radiance."

She did not respond, as if the answer was not yet complete. A second definition occurred to it, though something felt disrespectful about comparing the two acts so directly. Still, they indeed were called the same thing. Thus it continued:

"...or, for you to press your lips against the top of my head. That is a kiss also, though a very different kind."

She made a mmm-noise that echoed in its mind like distant thunder, the meaning impossible to place. Then, another order:

"Sword, kiss me. On the mouth."

Its body had already begun to enact the usual movements when the additional words charged in and broke the orderly ranks of its mind. It froze upon realizing the impossibility of the full command: like being told to kick something with your arm, like being told to add two and two so that the sum adds up to five.

One terrible, traitorous second of fear, fear that She had knowingly decreed a thing that could not be done, that She had tired of Her sword and simply decided to shatter it in an interesting way. Then courage returned. Its duty was to do as told. If it was told to do something, it simply had to determine how. It focused as hard as possible.

A memory appeared. Not episodic but procedural, a how-to rather than a what. Abstract, half-conscious. A 'kiss on the mouth' explained as a play of vague shapes and muscle movements, the impression of two heads facing one another, of lips moving to-

Oh. Oh.

Heat like burning oil rushed into its face. Its hands shook, once, before it redirected all its focus to keeping them properly still. The remembered act felt at once completely meaningless and utterly immodest, an impossible juxtaposition that left its mind in disarray.

Shock, not resolve, was what ended up stirring it. The sudden awareness that She had given an order, and it was just standing there doing nothing. Ingrained directives, briefly shook up by the mental turmoil, regained primacy. It burned with the all-consuming need, to show, right now, that its momentary inaction had been borne of confusion, not disloyalty.

It rose to its feet, took a step, pressed its face against Hers, and only then allowed the sheer blasphemy of the act to catch up with it. This could not be right. This could not be real. It must have misunderstood, somehow.

But Her lips! Her mouth! Her tongue, gently forcing its lips apart, the sensation so unfathomably pleasurable. The closeness of Her entire self, as She and Her sword kissed in ignoble symmetry.

It noticed that it had instinctually closed its eyes. It opened them again, found that She was looking directly at it, Her sky-dark eyes twinkling with amusement at some part of its reaction. Sensations overwhelmed the sword. Her smell so strong, Her face so close, the feeling of Her lips on such a sensitive part of its body...

Everything became too much. It broke the kiss, took a few steps back, and prayed quietly its efforts would be deemed sufficient. It suppressed a host of urges: to pant, to stare, to ask questions, to beg Her to never do this again, to beg Her to do this more.

Her eyes shone with transparent amusement. Instinctual, dutiful satisfaction at that helped cover up the sword's messier emotions.

Then She took a step, closed the distance between them, placed a single perfect finger on its brow. Something deep within it stirred in anticipation; a blade drawn, a bowstring pulled taut...

"Sword? Forget what I asked you. Forget what you remembered. Forget what you just did."

"Yes, Your Radiance," it reflexively spoke, and before the last word had left its mouth the memories had already been cut out. The notion that Her mouth had a taste became unthinkable again. The word 'kiss' collapsed back into those old, safe, coppiced meanings.

The sword blinked. It knew something had happened. It knew this was not for it to question. It allowed itself to enjoy, for one moment, the fading impression of Her touch among its thoughts, then returned to standing guard.

The lips that it had kissed time and time again curled up into a smile.