by Silent Draco
The Elf-Master beckoned them along a path made of finely cut and fitted rock, pocked in places by slag and spark, smoothed and healed in others. They stopped in an antechamber, one looming over the Elf’s head. The chamber was wrought of stone, in appearance like the walls of Minas Tirith, but with writing and symbols traced into the rock of true-silver and ruby crystals. Findalas halted them with a raised hand, then carefully stepped over the threshold to the inner chamber and the forge. A Master-Smith and Loremaster waited, both clad in much the same garments. Findalas presented Sting and the adamant sheets with a bow. The Master-smith look at the blade, tested the edge, and nodded. The Loremaster read the instructions, then stared in disbelief at Findalas and then at the hobbits. Both stepped over the threshold; the Loremaster gestured down in mockery and negation. Findalas turned his head from side to side, gestured at the sheet, and mimed four great cuts, pointing at Sam. He made an odd gesture of writhing arms. The Loremaster stopped, bowed deeply to Sam, and returned to the inner forge. He raised a staff, and a shimmering curtain of whispers descended behind Findalas, blurring the sight.
A red light, beginning dim and rising to a garish crimson, filled a trough. Sam could see Sting wrapped in the bloody cloth, then placed in this first, heating to a pinkish red. Smoke wafted as the cloth burned away. The Loremaster raised arms and chanted, while the smith smoothed part of the tracery with a press, singing as he worked. This happened twice more; at the third instance, the Loremaster changed his stance and song to a form like bards recounting a lineage or list; the cadence fit this. He took a stylus of adamant from a holder on the bench, and still singing, began scribing on the blade. The Smith placed Sting in the trough, waited, and then carefully smote the now-pliant steel. This happened several times; Sam was not sure, because vapors and bright lights blocked his sight. Then came a pouring of cold light, almost brilliant as the star-glass, on the stylus; the Loremaster drew, carved, and scribed rapidly. The smith bowed, then dipped Sting in a shallow bath which flared with green and yellow flame. He worked the edges with loving care, using a small hammer and a delicate file, taking time to replenish or refresh something twice in the bath. With a final pass of stone on edges, the smith and Loremaster sang the concluding verses, and then quenched Sting in cool water. Findalas stepped in, and reclaiming Sting into the casket, bowed deeply and returned to the hobbits, gesturing for them to leave.
They found Echthelion waiting for them in the Hall of Records. “Master Samwise, Gardener, even the humblest of those who work field, flock, or craft may need protection from sudden evil. We of Gondolin heeded not Lord Ulmo, to our ruin; should thoughts or a vision come from flowing stream or bright pond, cherish them with great care; pass that reminder to your heirs.” Findalas bowed, and placed the casket on table. “Young Master, behold: Sting, the Swift and Dire Hornet. We called the steel and adamant core to attention, and sang its heritage and feats into grain and fold, securing the memories with our bindings and the smith’s new work and layering. To honor the blade, we drew in his most prominent victories over the minions of the Enemies, and charged him to guide the sinews of his bearer, and strike swiftly in justice. The metal heeded us, and became several times stronger, which should not be possible without a complete re-forging. This was a most extraordinary effort, indeed.”
Sam picked up the blade and gasped in wonder; on one side of the blade the names were inscribed in Westron and Elvish, using the Runes of Daeron. On the other side, cunningly worked in darker bands on a bright surface were Sting’s major feats. He counted horned heads, a large spider-like shape, and several smaller spider forms, among other traceries. Sam bowed and said “Honored Master Findalas, this is a fair wonder! The blade feels lighter and quicker, if you will, an’ my Lord, please let me honor you of your gift to us,” he added quickly. Echthelion merely bowed in turn. “The smiths in Elf-Home had Ages more to consider metal crafting, and how to imbue tool, blade, or armor with those qualities most valued by the mind and hand wielding them. I expect that Dire Hornet may strike deeper and with greater ease, to the dismay of the Enemy’s servants. It will be well to inform your heirs that Elvish smiths have added more quality to Sting – but perhaps no more than that. I petitioned the king to permit your blade, a message, and perhaps some account of your travels to return to Hither Shore, for your family will have need of all.” Rasing his hand, he continued. “Farewell, Young Ones. Should our paths cross again in Valinor, I will count the hour blessed. If not, then I will treasure these memories forever.” Sam returned the small plaque, and the hobbits bowed and were escorted out.
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Find Previous Chapters Here:
Chapter 13 – Part 1 Chapter 12
Chapter 11 – Part 4 Chapter 11 – Part 3
Chapter 11 – Part 2 Chapter 11 – Part 1
Chapter 10 – Part 2 Chapter 10 – Part 1
Chapter 9 – Part 2 Chapter 9 – Part 1
Chapter 8 – Part 2 Chapter 8 – Part 1
Chapter 7 – Part 2 Chapter 7 – Part 1
Chapter 6 – Part 2 Chapter 6 – Part 1
Chapter 5 – Part 4 Chapter 5 – Part 3
Chapter 5 – Part 2 Chapter 5 – Part 1
Chapter 4 – Part 2 Chapter 4 – Part 1
Chapter 3 – Part 2 Chapter 3 – Part 1
Chapter 2 – Part 3 Chapter 2 – Part 2
Chapter 2 – Part 1 Chapter 1