Not really a Fairy Godfather story, but a Fairy Godfather kind of story, so ...
The Silver Sword
A hill, a sword, and an old man
A young girl is dreaming:
I'm in a forest unmarked by signs of people. Everything is emerald green; the tree trunks are black and slick as if wet. I'm on foot, walking quickly in as straight a line as the trees allow, like I know where I'm going though there is no path. The ground begins to rise, and I continue walking straight up the hill. Near the top the trees end abruptly, and I emerge on a green lawn that rings the hilltop like a tonsure. There is something unnatural in the transition, for no smaller trees or taller grasses surround the clearing; it is as if carved from the forest.
As I climb, my impression that people made this place is confirmed, for the very summit of the hill is ringed by a circle of tall, thin stones standing on end, surrounding a great irregular boulder like an altar. I had heard enough of fairy rings to know what they are, and not enough to fear them, so I stepped inside and walked to the center. I climbed up the boulder, I think intending to look out over the forest to get my bearings, though in fact I don't remember the view at all.
For when I stepped onto the top of the boulder, there appeared before me a bright silver sword with its point buried in the stone. I'm sure it had not been there before, for it would have been easily visible from below. It was a thing of beauty, the blade long and slender, the hilts extending straight out to make a nearly perfect cross, and the grip smoothly wrapped in leather. The metal shone as if new and polished; I was sure the blade would be exquisitely sharp. Without even thinking about it, I wrapped my hands around the grip and pulled the sword from the stone.
It came free effortlessly, with a slight ringing sound. It was light and well-balanced, but a little too long for me to handle it well, and obviously I had never had any training with a sword. So, I was holding it with both hands, with the point nearly touching the ground, when I turned around and came face to face with an old man.
Startled, I exclaimed, “This stuff shouldn't keep happening!”
Looking at me gravely, the old man replied, “My dear, don't you think it might be wise to stop telling the world that it can't do the things it quite obviously has just done, and concentrate instead on formulating a cogent response? I assure you that the dangers you will encounter will not stop trying to harm you long enough for you to agree that they exist.”
Still not believing this sudden apparition, I'm afraid I just stood staring at him. He was somewhat taller than I, but shorter than most men, perhaps because of a slight stoop. His hair and beard flowed together and were of a color that blended brown and white. He wore a simple gray homespun garment that resembled a monk's, belted at the waist with a length of rope. Yet if his hair concealed a tonsure, not even God could find it, and there was no crucifix around his neck. The things that held you, though, were his eyes, bright and sharp, and as piercing as if he could look through solid wood.
Recovering, I said, “Dangers, huh? So which one of us is holding the sharp sword?”
“Which one of us needs a sharp sword?” he countered. Then, disconcertingly, he turned his back on me. My first thought was that that was a dangerous thing to do when his opponent, me, was armed with such a great sword. My second thought was that he would only have done it if it wasn't a dangerous thing to do, and therefore he must have an even greater weapon I didn't know about, so I let him talk. It was only much later that I thought that he might have known all along what I would think, and therefore didn't need a weapon at all. And that he might have been trying to teach me to think.
But now he was continuing to talk to me over his shoulder. “The sword you hold is more than just sharp. It is one of the great swords of the ages, once wielded by a mighty conqueror, who used it to perform deeds of legend.”
“Whose sword is it?” I asked naively.
He replied, “Why, it appears to be yours, young lady. It has chosen you; it would not have left the stone so easily for any other.”
“Well then, whose sword was it?” I continued. Somehow the human connection was important to me. However, he seemed to find the question irritating.
“Next you will be asking me who makes the sun rise every morning!” he exclaimed. “Is it not enough that it does? The sword is yours now; its past deeds no longer matter.
“Mark me well, though,” he said, turning back to me at last. “A sword such as this one is not simply a tool of violence. In fact, using it for indiscriminate violence would mark you as one unworthy to wield it, and it would leave you of its own volition.”
I did not interrupt to ask about a sword having volition; I had already seen enough of this world to know that there were things I was going to have to unlearn.
The old man continued, “Indeed, the magic of this sword is far greater than simply being good at cutting people up. It is a living reservoir of courage. It will sustain you when all other hope is lost; it can heal the hearts of your companions when doubt overcomes them.”
Again he turned as if to look out over a land I couldn't see. I kept my attention on him.
“Use it well,” he concluded. “For there are things of great evil abroad in these lands, in addition to the ordinary. And, as always, only one of you. Out there, I cannot help you, any more than I have already. Be careful, and may you come safely through the challenge. Once you have, you may well be my master.” And as I looked at the back of his head, he was gone.
“Boy, I wish I knew how he does that,” I said to myself, as much to cover my sudden loneliness as anything else. I scrambled quickly off the rock, feeling suddenly out of place in the fairy ring, and carried my sword down the hill and into the woods again. I had realized by this time that without a scabbard, a sharp two-edged sword is not something one carries easily. I took turns carrying it by the handle, first in one hand and then in the other. It was awkward, and as my arm tired it would tend to droop and catch on things, which it immediately sliced through of course, but which repeatedly tugged at my grip so that I had to rest more often. Still, I continued through the woods in the opposite direction from which I had come, venturing deeper and deeper into the wilderness.