my father to the left of me, my mother to the right

Hylia stands at hope's forge, dreams of security melding to ideals of strength.

Is it enough simply to symbolize? Simply to oversee, and to love beyond all capability of touch and sigh?

Meyneth's hands mold perfectly to hers, guiding the somnolent song of the blade in silent synchrony.

One lightbound finger slides along the edge.

This sword is not the only relic of my love I will be sorrowful to leave.

Coveting instants, one long-nailed hand moves to match.

Then let us leave not only symbols in our wake.

Would it not be better to simply change the legend itself?