[Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine; they are Tolkien's.
He is the genius, I am only borrowing from his shine.]
The hammer rings off the star-iron as I forge the twin to Anglachel. The same metal, the same forge, the same hammer, the same smith. But this time, it's different. This blade seems to forge herself, growing out of the metal, like a tree out of the earth.
The blade is nearly ready. I plunge the white-hot metal into the stone water trough. It steams and hisses. Her voice is different than Anglachel, softer somehow. This sword is nearly finished.
I lay the blade aside; it's time to begin work on the hilt. Slowly, the twisted vines of the grip come into being, twining up from the base. A smile hovers on my face through the soot of the forge and the sting of the sparks that fly from the coals. This, my forge, my weapons and my art, is what I live for. It is my love.
****
At last, the sword is finished. I look at her for a moment, engraving her lines into my mind, learning her name. She glints in the red light of the dying fire, almost as though she has already tasted blood. Perhaps from the flickering of the coals, perhaps my eyes are wavering from the long exposure to the sparks and the smoke, but she seems to breathe softly.
"Anguirel," I say aloud. Living Star-iron. It is a good name. She will wear it well.
I turn from my forge and stride into my armory. Hanging on the wall is her twin, Anglachel, a blank space reserved for her beside him. I hang her in it, comparing the swords. Anglachel is heavy, a broadsword forged for war. Anguirel is lighter, slimmer, almost a rapier and meant for-more personal battles.
I survey all of my creations. Some are weapons, battle-axes, swords, spears. Some are more decorative, delicate filigree crowns and necklaces, meant to adorn a fair maid. I once made a present of one of my necklaces to the dwarf-king's wife; she laughed and returned it, saying that it was too elvish for her liking. I suppose it, and the rest of the jewelry, will hang here in my armory for a very long time, unless I find an elven-maid worthy of it.
The hammer rings off the star-iron as I forge the twin to Anglachel. The same metal, the same forge, the same hammer, the same smith. But this time, it's different. This blade seems to forge herself, growing out of the metal, like a tree out of the earth.
The blade is nearly ready. I plunge the white-hot metal into the stone water trough. It steams and hisses. Her voice is different than Anglachel, softer somehow. This sword is nearly finished.
I lay the blade aside; it's time to begin work on the hilt. Slowly, the twisted vines of the grip come into being, twining up from the base. A smile hovers on my face through the soot of the forge and the sting of the sparks that fly from the coals. This, my forge, my weapons and my art, is what I live for. It is my love.
****
At last, the sword is finished. I look at her for a moment, engraving her lines into my mind, learning her name. She glints in the red light of the dying fire, almost as though she has already tasted blood. Perhaps from the flickering of the coals, perhaps my eyes are wavering from the long exposure to the sparks and the smoke, but she seems to breathe softly.
"Anguirel," I say aloud. Living Star-iron. It is a good name. She will wear it well.
I turn from my forge and stride into my armory. Hanging on the wall is her twin, Anglachel, a blank space reserved for her beside him. I hang her in it, comparing the swords. Anglachel is heavy, a broadsword forged for war. Anguirel is lighter, slimmer, almost a rapier and meant for-more personal battles.
I survey all of my creations. Some are weapons, battle-axes, swords, spears. Some are more decorative, delicate filigree crowns and necklaces, meant to adorn a fair maid. I once made a present of one of my necklaces to the dwarf-king's wife; she laughed and returned it, saying that it was too elvish for her liking. I suppose it, and the rest of the jewelry, will hang here in my armory for a very long time, unless I find an elven-maid worthy of it.