- Links - About Me - Sign Guestbook - View Guestbook - - The Forging - by Zenyth (8/2000)

I have always loved the flame, worshipped its searing heat and cleansing brightness. Its ability to destroy, and its ability to create. The creation of the sword through purity of flame meant more to me than all else in my world; the ritual combining the strength of the elements to fashion a thing of such power and beauty had a lure I felt even as a child. It was thus that as a child that I did not join in the games with the other children of my village, nor did I have any friends my own age, for I would sit in the forge, watching the Sword-Master at his work. Reveling in the heat and smell, watching in wonder as he forged the instruments of war. Even when the harvest was done and the village celebrated, I did not squeal with excitement at the games or the bright clothes. Instead I would gaze at the sparks of the rockets, breathe the sulphur, reminders of the flame that I loved. As I grew older, I was not put to work in the ore-mines like my brothers and sisters, nor did I work the land like my parents. I was bound to the sword, and I became an apprentice to the Master. The forge-mark was tattooed to my forehead, a sign of honour and respect, for the swords that were made had defended us from the Slavers for many thousands of years, and all forgers were thus held in high regard. I worked hard from dawn until dusk, begrudging none of the pain and exhaustion I suffered for it. At night I would sit around the fires, listening to the warriors talk of battles and weapons. There was one warrior who said little and sat apart, but I saw that the other warriors held him in great respect. He had the mark of the Slavers on his face, but he had made it his own, extending the tattoo to an intricate design of swirls and curves, the lines defying the shame of slavery while speaking the joy of freedom. I was drawn to him, and I watched him often. Over many months I grew to love him, an unspoken, undemanding love that asked for no acknowledgement or return. And one day he asked me to make him a sword. It was the most beautiful object I had ever created. I shaped the metal with the elements, speaking the ritual blessings and forging the properties of all elements into the metal. The hilt I engraved with the same coils and lines that marked his face, binding the weapon to him alone. When it was done, the village proclaimed me to be a Sword-Master of an echelon unseen for generations. My warrior took his sword and went to war, for the Slavers had risen again. I was busy with the forging, and I heard little of him, but at night when I was alone I would think of him. The little I heard spoke admiration of his courage and valour in battle, and how his name and sword brought fear to the hearts of the enemy. I saw him only once again, but he did not see me. The battle had come close to our village, and was the bloodiest of all the struggles. When it was over, and the Slavers were defeated, I found him lying still on the field, eyes on the heavens. He was dead, run through by his own sword, an instrument of my own creation. I returned to my forge and they buried him, with much lamentation, returning him to the earth from which the ores came. His grave was marked with his sword, hilt skywards. I grieved alone, and each forging brought nothing but the memory of pain, and the flame that I loved seemed cruel. I wished to throw myself into its pitiless purity. I did not. I knew my swords were needed, for the Slavers threatened always, and so I went on. My skill grew, and so did my reputation. With my swords the Slaver disappeared, perhaps into hiding, or perhaps gone forever. But I never again created a sword as perfect as the one I created for him. I grow tired now - age wearies me. Soon my apprentice will take my place as Sword-Master, though it is a meaningless position now. A tradition only, for the Slavers are gone, and with them our purpose. But it is a position of respect, and she will do well. I will return to the earth from which the ores came, and I will be forgotten. It is perhaps better so. I like to think that my warrior's soul waits for me, and we shall both be reforged, in a world without swords and slavery, but only the beauty of flame. ~The End~ - Return to Eclectic - - Return to Fable Menu -

'When we take time to dream, we discover the many windows to our soul' - Isabela Burani

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--~ShadowRealm~--