I Do Not Own the Inheritance Cycle.

Italics- Memories

Please keep in mind, that Elves normally speak in the Ancient Language.

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The ring of hammer on steel echoed around the clearing Rhunön had built her forge.

For countless years she had called this clearing, her forge and the small home on the edge, her home and sancturary.

Wen ran up to her as she arrived back to the clearing from a short trip to see Queen Islanzandi, delivering a necklace she had created as a commision from the king, and gave her a hug. The elder elf huged her, at only fourteen years of age, daughter.

Stepping back, Wen excitedly said, "I finished."

Rhunön raised a white eyebrow and smirked at Wen. "You have, have you?"

Her golden haired daughter nodded.

The old smith began walking toward the forge. "I'll be the judge of that," she said, even as her daughter followed her.

Reaching the work bench, Rhunön saw a short sword, complete with scabbard, laying on the table. She picked it up and drew the blade. It wasn't a Rider's sword, her daughter would never help her forge one of those untile the smith deemed her skilled enough, but the steel blade was well crafted. Rhunön's experienced eye examined the blade, noting the small, elegant details her daughter had included in it. It took her experienced eye only minutes to relize that her daughter had truly done a magnificent job. Giving the blade a few experimental swings, she nodded, before examining the scabbard.

Turning to her daughter, as she sheathed the blade, she gave a small, but approving, smile. "You did good Wen. While it could be better, it is still a fine weapon, one anyone would be proud to carry."

Rhunön did not smile as she removed the hot metal from her anvil, sticking it back into the forge.

Wen was twenty-three, and Rhunön smiled as she played with her newly hatched dragon, named Meleia. Already the smith was judgeing the dragon's violet scales, planng the sword she would make for her daughter.

"How much longer until you two leave for Doru Araeba?" The elder elf asked.

Her daughter shrugged. "It depends on how long Oromis and Glaedr take to finish thier discussions with the King and Queen. But I don't really know."

"Well then, I suppose we had better make the most of what time we have left togethor," Rhunön said with a smile.

She took the metal out of the forge, and began the process of folding it again.

Five years later, Wen and Melia, now large enough for Wen and two other to fly on, completed thier training, and returned to Rhunön.

The old elf was smiling as she handed over the violet sword she had crafted, one of her best works. "I'm so proud of you, both of you," she added as she looked at Melia.

Satisfied with the number of folds in the steel, she stuck it back into the forge. After it had heated back up, she took it out, and bagen to shape it.

The betrayal of Galbatorix and forsworn was a surprise. And every time she heard a Rider had fallen, Rhunön hated herself for the relief she felt when she heard none of them where Wen.

She had been working at her forge, making armor for the eleven troop when Oromis and Glaedr arrived at her forge. She frowned when she looked up and noticed the golden dragon was missing his left foreleg. But her worry asserted itself with a vengance at the solem look on the Rider's face.

The armored chest piece began to take shape on her anvil.

"Oromis...what is it?" she asked, taking note of the wrapped bundle he carried.

The silver haired elf would not look her in the eyes, even as he unfolded the cloth, revealing a violet hilt Rhunön knew well.

The smith dropped her hammer, as she fell to her knees. "No..Oromis...please...tall me that's not..."

"I'm sorry Rhunön," he said softly

The chest piece was finished, and Rhunön plunged it into the oil to quench it.

Rhunön didn't know how long she screamed her anguish, tears flowing down her cheeks as she cradled the sword she had made for her daughter, the sword she made to defend her daughter.

The sword that was her last momento of her beautiful Wen. The sword that was her greatest faliure, for it had failed in the very duty she had crafted it for.

All she knew was that when her grief had subsided enough for her to think rationally again, Oromis and Glader had left her to her grief.

"My blades killed you," she cried, "The very weapons I created...I swear...My hands will never craft another weapon again."

Rhunön finished polishing the last piece of armor, and placed it with the now finished set. Inscribed into every piece of the armor was a scene from her daughters life, from her birth, to the last time Rhunön had seen her. The old elf looked at the completed armor, and she felt herself tremble.

No parent, elf, dwarf, human, or Urgul should have to mourn the death of thier child. But for almost a century now, that was what Rhunön had done.

She couldn't take this to the Agaeti Blödhren...it may only be armor, but Wen was engraved on every piece.

And the old smith missed her more than she could describe.

With a scowl, Rhunön placed the armor in the storage box she'd made for it an turned back to her forge. She needed to make something else.

She needed to distract herself from her pain.

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