"There must be another set of bellows, surely? Search the whole city if you have to!" Estarfin snarled the last command at the wide-eyed assistant, pointing out of the door of the crafting hall as he did so. Nodding briefly, the brown-haired Elf almost fled from the forge, keen to distance himself from such anger. Left alone finally, and dressed only in his old boots, filthy trousers and undershirt, Estarfin turned back to the forge with a determined expression. He would repair the shield; he must. If they ever found Lord Anglachelm he must have his shield, and then he would know, then he would see that Estarfin was true, that he had some worth still to his House. But the forges of the Galadhrim were barely adequate to heat regular steel; and could hardly even bring the ancient Noldor steel of Gondolin to glow a faint orange, no matter how frantically he used the set of bellows to heat the coals. Again he thrust the damaged steel rim into the fire, and again he pumped the wooden handles, corded muscles straining and sweat dripping into his eyes. Pulling the metal from the flames he laid it across the anvil, holding it tight and swinging the heavy hammer with all of his might. A great clang sounded, but the rim of the shield stayed bent. Clang. Again he swung the hammer to no effect, his damp hair sticking to his sweat-drenched face. Clang. He saw the face of Anglachelm, disapproving as it had been on the day he had sworn his Oath to the House, his only reward for his fealty were words of warning and reprimand. Clang. The faces of Veryacano and Tindir, shocked and angry when they had learnt of the fate of the village. Clang. Belegos and Nirhen, friends sent away in disgrace. Clang. The metal stared back at him, as bent and broken as it had been when they had pulled it from the snow.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Estarfin thrust the metal back into the forge, again working the bellows as if he were possessed. The coals roared, the flame turning blue. He could not look away, and he saw faces in the fire, glazed eyes and expressions of pain and sadness etched into the features. After several minutes, he pulled the rim from the forge and placed it into a vice, turning it so that it gripped the metal tightly. Walking to the wall, he picked up the sledgehammer that lay propped against it, weighing it in his hands. With a grunt of effort, he swung the heavy hammer down onto the metal with a crash of sound, sparks flying as steel met steel. Crash. He swung again, feeling his muscles burning and his lungs full of pain. Crash. He saw the reasons that he hated being in this place, memories that he always tried to forget but would always haunt him. Crash. The darkness of that night in Menegroth, so many years before when he had marched with war against his kin. Crash. Blood on his hands, and walking bold-faced into the realm of Celeborn himself, who had lived through that terrible night. Crash. Images of The Lord of Lorien, standing in judgement over Estarfin, his friends and comrades turning against him as they heard the charges that Celeborn laid at his feet. Crash. Being cast from the Order, cast from his House to once again dwell alone, far from hope and love. Crash. The metal flew from the vice and smashed into the wall, the heavy hammer having cracked the vice, and yet leaving no mark in the shield of Anglachelm, his last chance of salvation. Dropping to his knees, Estarfin let the hammer fall from his grasp, his breath coming in ragged gasps and his muscles burning. His head drooped onto his chest, and a sob escaped from him. Bringing a soot-blackened hand to his face he wept, a filthy and broken warrior unable to see a way out of the prison he had wrought for himself.
