When I was a week younger than seventeen I wrestled my father.

He always was a giant in my eyes, not until I had a firm grip on his neck could I finally see his body ended somewhere and he could sweat. Our tribe was very clear, were I not to defeat him I would have my nose cut and be banished to the desert to die, My sister roared my name stronger than anyone else, did she want me to win or my father to lose because he sold her to an unworthy husband?
I finally managed to break his grip from my neck, his arms as strong as his sword, bequeathed to him by his father. I broke his stance and could finally push him outside the circle of ash.
The Eldest announced my victory.
“You are a man now, you are now the owner of the Black Blade, its strength is that of the mountains, its swiftness of the wind”
They handed me the blade. I raised it and it made the sun bleed.
“Now you have to cut your father’s arm in order to craft a new grip, as he did when he was your age”

Next moon my own son will be seventeen.