It was the day, one week after Dwarf Regún had evaded a dire fate through the intervention of a young Skjalddís from the Wilderlands. She had slain the man Høgni, who had been a renowned highwayman and had troubled the pilgrims of the road between the Erebor and the Iron Hills and he lay still now by a pond where the raven were holding their felon feast.
As reward for his life, Dwarf Regún had promised her the making of a weapon from his prize; A cold grey rock, strange unlike any other in Middle-Earth for it was wholly of iron and adorned with gaps and sharp edges that cut into the Dwarf's hands as he had scooped it up and his blood speckled the fallen star with crimson streaks. No less, he deemed it an appropriate amend and his mind was settled on this, so that he hurried to his forge that lay nigh the Lonely Mountain, though hidden, for Regún was a craftsman of skill that was long forgotten in this age and only one other knew the passage to his workshop; his apprentice Fafnar.
There in Aegathrond they dwelt and hid their treasure from greedy eyes. But after Dwarf Regún had made his last and greatest craft, he would rarely return there and in time the hidden cave lay dormant, such as the riches that were lost to the world.
Now lay the fallen star, a heavy shape of iron upon the anvil and Dwarf Regún was struck with quiet thoughtfulness what weapon he would forge of it and in what way; He was minding the knowledge of its unique existence and if he would make a mistake, his work may be undone, the iron lost and his life forfeit.
While he was silent, Fafnar's heart burned brightly and eager to learn and not without little envy he looked upon the marvelously nightly black chunk of iron and he sought to drive his master to begin. There Dwarf Regún brought a hold to his tongue.
»I begin now and you shall not utter a word. Do as you are told and together we may create an artifact of which those who behold it, may believe it was made in the eldest of days when our folk was high and powerful,« he said and his voice grew impatient. »Now bring me the Kheluz-Abod!«
And Fafnar went to do so and he returned with a short handled hammer with a massive head, for his master intended to forge the iron flat into a blade, with handle and all what was needed. This hammer was one of the tokens from Regún's hands that would be lost, but during its being it was a powerful tool, decorated and imbued with the mightiest runes of his folk and when the Dwarf wielded the Kheluz-Abod, it seemed to delight itself in the work and it threw the sparks high up, drowned the hidden forge into leaping orange illumination.
As Dwarf Regún began his work, heated the iron, molded it into steel for him to work, his craft was now driven by the desire that this would be the greatest of his making and his face darkened and Fafnar was afraid, and he fled from the forge. Grim envy led Regún now, for all the artifacts of greatness that came before - he wanted to outdo them, ready to pay any price and with each hammer strike that he made, by the impurpurate glows of crimson and bright red of the fiery forge, he imbued the sword in making with the longing to overcome and for great dominion and it appeared alike to a great flaming terrestrial pyre.
In Regún's eyes was a sharp glimmer and although his arms threatened to forsake and deny him their power, he swung the hammer on and he adorned the blade with a deathly glimmer.
There, by the final strike that should finish the making, Kheluz-Abod's mighty form shattered and it was stripped of its raiment and its splendor was gone and it died.
The sound of the breaking hammer summoned Fafnar back into the forge and as he saw his master with the finished sword at hand that bore dwarvish runes he called out: »The hammer lies asunder and Nothung 's come aborning!«
For Nothung was the name that Regún had given to it and unknowing it was a prophecy to come true sooner than one might think, and in the tongue of the Northmen its name meant 'grievance', befitting a sword that had required such labor and would come to do such deeds.
It came into Regún's mind that he should swing it and see what his making was capable of doing before he delivered it to the savior of his life and for a moment a thought struck him, that he would keep it to himself for he had done partly what he had desired and made Nothung the greatest of his crafts.
So he swung it then, but the blade seemed to master its father and led his hands into the direction in which Fafnar stood and it slew the young Dwarf and as his blood bedewed the steel it turned blacker than the night with a loud hiss.
»Truly! Nothung, you have your name rightly given!«, Regún said as he wept for Fafnar's doom and the weapon in his hand, glimmering of crimson and a cruel shine answered: »You cannot begrudge me for what you have made my being with. Many lives do I yearn to take still; So take me to the hand that is intended to wield me for yours I do not abide.«
»Now then, that I will do. Reap if you must but not here in my abode any longer.«
Regún brought the weapon to its rightful owner and his last words to her were: »A life for a life was paid duely.«
So came Nothung to the young woman that had slain Highwayman Høgni and the sword delighted in her grasp and it is said that during the journeys and the life of Skjalddís, she would sit at times in silent soliloquy with it, heeding its dire council.
