Pulling it from the sheath, I saw that the blade was indeed as she had described it; of good quality, but worn and needing care. I swung the sword with one hand, nodding with satisfaction that it still sang as it cleaved the air: the blade had life in it yet. Running my finger along the flat of the blade, I searched for the balance point. I shook my head slightly as I found it, far too far ahead of the guard. That would lead to overbalanced strikes, and would cause fatigue of the forearm quickly. There were a few small notches in the blade, each one would need to be hammered out and ground down. Finally, inspecting the handle and the pommel, it was clear that both were worn badly and would need to be replaced. I placed the sword upon the anvil, and started the long process of lighting the forge, and getting it hot enough to work with.
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Repairing the Damage
Submitted by Estarfin on November 19th, 2012
***
As I hammered the red-hot metal back into shape, my mind drifted over the events of the evening. Lord Veryacano had called a meeting of the Hammers to discuss our future. Many words had been spoken, and many plans put forth; but we were no closer to knowing where or when we would be deployed next. The land of Lórien had been suggested, and I frowned slightly as I thought of it. The land of Galadriel, and of course, of Celeborn. The Lord of the Golden Wood, Prince of Doriath, refugee of the Havens of Sirion. I tried to laugh at the idea of a warm welcome to his realm, but no sound would come. What welcome would a slayer of kin receive, I wondered. Thinking upon it, I heard an unusual noise from the steel that I was hammering back into shape. Looking down at the sword, I saw that the metal had cooled, the edge buckled. Sighing, I picked up the blade and thrust it back into the forge, trying to ignore the fair faces that I saw writhing and screaming within the flames.
***
Wrapping the final strand of silver wire around the leather handle, I smiled faintly at my work. The sword was once again fit to be carried by a Caun of Vanimar. The blade was bright as a spring morning, and sharp as winter frost. Every imperfection had been beaten from the metal, and the balance point had been moved back to the correct position. Sheathing the sword, I wrapped it in a bolt of bright blue silk, tucked it under my arm and left the stifling heat of the smithy. Striding along the wet path in the misty morning, I headed first for my rooms. I would not present the weapon to Lady Rainith in my dirty apron and working clothes. Opening the heavy door, I picked my way through empty bottles, stacks of armour, various weapons and broken glass. Changing quickly into my black hauberk, I took the long, pale sword of Gondolin that Veryacano had presented to me, and strapped it to my belt. Picking up the sword of Rainith, I turned and left the dark room, heading to her suite. Knocking on the carved oak door, I stood and waited, the blade clutched in hand.
