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“Luce, this is going to be so cool.”
“Owain–”
“This is a day that will go down in history! This is the day that I, Owain of the Mythic Blade, the blood of the Exalt of the Kingdom of Ylisse flowing through my veins, wield the Falchion! Bards will write songs of this day, of this triumph–”
“Owain, my father will notice–”
“–and the power of the gods will rain down, the souls of our ancestors flowing through me to guide my righteous hand!”
Lucina was unable to get a word in edgewise as her cousin took a fighting stance. Practiced and masterful, he swung the blade, looking for all the world a hero were it not for the fact there was no enemy in the vicinity for him to vanquish. In fact, Lucina thought him rather lackluster as he slashed at nothing, bellowing noises such as “HUUUUAH!”, “YAH!”, and still odder ones like “SHHHHWOYAHHH!”.
He was lost in the moment, caught in the dance and mesmerized with power. Beginning the steps that he would later claim as “an epic move that could slay thousands”, Owain accidentally flung the Falchion straight into a tree, powerful enough to lodge the sword inside it.
They could do nothing but stare dumbfounded at the blade sticking out of the tree. “Owain… Owain, no.”
For a moment he could only gape in silence. Then his mouth began to move, no doubt to start babbling and waxing poetic about swords and the those too powerful to be trusted to the blades of man, when another voice cut through. “Owain, Lucina! By the gods, what are you doing?!”
A limp hand held Lucina’s, her cousin’s calloused hand squeezing hers. “My folly has cursed us, my dear Lucina,” he whispered. “This is our Day of Reckoning.” He mustered up a proud grin and turned. “Uncle Chrom! This day shall go down in history as the day I, Owain of the Mythic Blade, the blood of the Exalt of the Kingdom of Ylisse flowing through my–!”
“You threw my Falchion into a tree!”
“But I was so cool, Uncle!”
Owain was no longer allowed near either Falchion.
Ever.