The Toothpick was strong:

Stronger then the hardest steel

The Toothpick was sharp: 

Sharper then the sharpest sword

The Toothpick was smart:

Smarter then you or I could ever fathom

The staunchest of defenders, strongest of weapons, smartest of minds.

Yet nobody knew but itself.

Indeed, the one who created it knew that an overlarge ego was the deadliest weapon of all.

One could be smart, and strong, and sharp, but it you used it in the wrong way, your weakness was yourself.

And so, even though it was his life's work, his greatest creation, the pride and joy of himself and the generations that would follow him...

He made it a toothpick.

A small, wooden toothpick, ordinary as you please.

For he knew, being a toothpick would keep him humble, and in turn, humble those who would wield him, hopefully for good. 

For the toothpick was, indeed, unavoidably, a toothpick, but it was a very, very, very strong one.

And it was also smart.

Indeed, it was intelligent. It could think for itself.

It was, however, unable to do anything about it.

It could not see with eyes, but it could sense with it's soul. And it had never seen anything anyway, for it had never had eyes to see with, and did not know that there was anything to see.

It could not eat, for it did not need to.

It could not read, for it knew everything it could think of already.

It could not speak, but it deemed mortals beneath it anyway, which was perhaps why it could not, because it had never deemed speech with others worthy of it's time. 

It could not move, either, which it deemed one of the greatest tragedies of all it's existence, just below the fact that it was a toothpick.

Indeed, it's creator had tried to make the greatest, strongest weapon, but had failed in trying to make it humble and kind. 

For the toothpick was proud of it's lineage, the prestige of it's creator, was proud of it's strength and it's sturdiness, and it was most proud of it's intelligence, because no other toothpick, and indeed, no other weapon, could think like it could.

And yet, despite being unable to see, it could tell that others though less of it for being a toothpick. It had knowledge in it's brain or what counted for one, synthesised and inherited from the components that made up it's glorious majesty, and so it knew that in comparison to all other weapons and beings in the world, it did not appear that incredible at all.

And thus was the swordsmith's intention, to make it have it's peace with such a reality, and understand that some things simply did not define a person.

This did not work.

Instead, the toothpick developed a legendary inferiority complex.

It would always be a toothpick in the eyes of it's beholders.

It would always be inferior in the arms of it's wielders.

It would, to those who could not see beyond it's wooden visage, always be nothing more than a toothpick. 

This was a travesty to the toothpick.

It could not be destroyed, could not be broken, could not be lost unless it willed it.

And so the toothpick sought to see the world, to find someone to wield it in all it's glory, to present it in all it's majesty. 

It just needed someone small and timid enough.

The toothpick tumbled through mountains and rivers, picked the teeth of peasants, skewered fresh grapes at the banquets of royalty. 

And yet, it grew nothing but bitter. The only beings smaller then itself were those so small and weak they could be crushed underfoot by almost anything else in the world. 

Years and years passed, until all who knew the toothpick was as strong as it was, whether they believed it or not, were dead and buried long enough that they themselves were nothing more then disbelieved myths. 

And still the toothpick simmered in it's inferiority.

for the thing it now hated more then anything else in the world, more then weakness, or wimpiness, or stupid, judgemental mortals, 

Was itself. 

Time ticked on, hands on an endless clock, and the toothpick moved onwards, until it no longer knew why it moved at all.

In fact, it no longer felt inferior, no longer felt hatred, no longer felt anything at all, except a soul crushing feeling that it was missing something.

Until one day, it slid through space, and felt itself spat out on the floor of a place it felt it should remember.

For this was the hall it was created in. Many thousands of years had passed, and the walls lay cracked with age and disrepair, caked in fine levels of dust. 

And upon the wall, above the casket of it's creator, lay a frayed tapestry of a toothpick.

There was nothing special about it, just a wooden toothpick on a faded blue background, but it was beautiful in it's simplicity, even weathered by age as it was.

And so the toothpick wished it could weep, to mourn it's creator, who had failed in his goal, but had cared for him at heart.

And it wished for all it's heart, until a mouse picked it up by it's teeth.

The toothpick was not afraid, for it could not be broken.

But it was angry, to be interrupted in it's mourning.

It may have learned some lessons, but it was prideful at heart.

So angry it was, that it lashed out with it's soul.

And the little fragment out soul drifted of, for as powerful, skilled, and angry as the toothpick was, it had never done anything of the sort before.

And the little soul fragment kept drifting, through time and space, and realities that you or I could never fathom, until it settled in the mouse.

And suddenly, the mouse too, was intelligent.

It could think.

It was not strong, it was not sturdy, but it was wise. 

And the mouse stood on two legs, and picked up the toothpick in one of it's front paws, and said.

"We are not all we could be, and we are not all we can be, through no fault of our own. But perhaps, if we learn through others, we can become betters of ourselves"

And the toothpick, lonely as it was, for that is the emptiness it had been feeling, could not find it in itself to disagree. 

And because they could not be seen as they were, and judged rightfully for how they thought, for the world could not yet comprehend and understand them in their entirety just yet, they slid into the world of dreams. 

And sometimes, in the depths of your subconsciousness, as you dream in the night, a mouse clad in a cloak of green, wielding a toothpick, shall ride through your nightmares, until you sleep peacefully.