There’s a sword in a stone, out in the shallows in the shadow of the falls where the rainbowspray glistens.

Its presence has protected your settlement from harm for centuries, or that’s what the elders say, and it’s not exactly a secret. In stories, an artifact of such power would be just yearning to be drawn free, a toppling of safety and sanctuary, an invitation to darkness and strife.

But this isn’t one of those stories.

The sword stands inviolate against the greatest efforts of multiple generations of youth to realise a glorious destiny, pulling and prodding, summoning up heroic reserves of strength and still coming up second best to an otherwise innocuous chunk of limestone.

You grew up here, tested your strength against fate with your skirts swept back in dramatic pose. The sword’s proximity bred familiarity; its steadfastness, comfort.

So when you fell in love, you brought her to the falls.

Your first kiss glimmered in the rainbow’s spray, your back pressed against the flat of that sacred blade, bending not beneath summer’s enthusiasm. Cool water around, inside your boots, love’s first magic lingering on your tongue, teaching lessons beyond the ken of prophets.

There are more glorious things than destiny in these quiet moments of life.