“It is not your place to command me, I am free to stay or go by my own will!” Galuoneth spoke the words with a certainty that she did not feel, not when faced with the grim Noldor before her. Estarfin stood to the fore, dressed in a thick leather apron, carrying a heavy hessian sack over one shoulder, a wooden case of tools in his other hand. To his left stood Ruineth, dressed in a tabard of thick suede, turned almost black from long years spent before the forge. She carried a large set of bellows and a steel case of tools, her long dark hair pulled up out of her face, tied with a length of thin leather. To Estarfin’s right, looking unsettled by the confrontation stood Dithalion, three wooden boxes stacked upon each other held in his hands. Behind the Noldor smiths, looking out of place in his fine robes and carrying an ornate harp lurked the bard Fileglin.
“Perhaps it is not, but you will heed my words. I have been charged with a commission, the most difficult that I have ever received. You know me, and you know that I seek the aid of none in my work save Ruineth here.” Estarfin nodded to Ruineth as he paused, trying to find the right words. “This is work for the smiths of the Noldor alone, and I cannot, will not suffer others to be present during this task. Take your complaints to ears that may care, for I am deaf to your concerns. Leave now, or suffer our anger.”
Galuoneth and Dringlinn exchanged glances, and then hurried from the hidden forges of Imlad Gelair with many a muttered word between themselves.
“Close the doors and bar them, we will not be interrupted nor leave this place until our work is complete.” The others noticed his switch to the High Speech, but made no remark upon it, they all knew the tongue well after all.
“Estarfin, what is it that you want from us? You yourself admitted that you seek the assistance of few in your work, yet now you gather three of us to aid you?” It was Ruineth that asked the questions, then waited in silence for a response. Estarfin turned to them, pulling a heavy bag of gold from his pocket.
“This is what is left, after I bought all of the materials needed. A small fortune of gold from the hand of Lord Veryacano himself. Hmph.” He turned the bag upside-down, letting the fat gold coins fall to the sand-covered floor of the forge-hall. “If you wish to ask foolish questions, then take what you will and leave. This work will be my greatest, but we need to be of one mind.” He pulled a scroll of parchment from his pocket, waving it lazily in the air before the three puzzled Noldor. “Designs for a greatsword for Lord Anglachelm. A broad blade, a long hilt with a swan head carving on the pommel and a wide handguard etched with swan wing carvings. Exacting instructions, again from Lord Veryacano.” He walked to the forge and tossed the parchment onto the coals, watching the charcoal drawing turn black, then fall to ash. “We do not need drawings to make swords, neither do we need gold to encourage our hand. This is something that I wish to make in the old way. Do you understand that at least?”
Ruineth nodded, understanding the great undertaking before them. She knew at once what was in the hessian sack that Estarfin carried, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the thought. Dithalion nodded once, walking to the oak table and laying the boxes out upon it. Fileglin looked apprehensive, wondering what would be required of him.
“We will not speak again until this work is completed. We will not rest, will not eat, until the sword is sheathed. Dithalion, open the shutters above us, we must work by starlight and firelight alone, I will not have the touch of the Sun upon this blade. Fileglin, you know what is required of you. Begin.”
Fileglin sighed, and fetched a chair before his harp. Stretching his fingers once, he set them upon the strings and began the long lament of the Noldolantë.
***
The blade was finished at last, the metals twisted and folded until the pattern of undulating lines flowed like a river. The steel of Formenos was brighter than the dark steel of Nogrod, and shone like a pale fire when starlight hit it, though it would appear as only a dull grey under the light of the Sun. Dilathion carried the long hilt over to Estarfin, handing it to him and wiping the sweat from his brow. Estarfin checked the work of course, but it was of perfect quality as he had expected. He nodded once to Dilathion, and then began the process of binding the handle to the blade as Ruineth watched on, leaning heavily on the wooden handles of the bellows while Fileglin played softly and sang his lament.
***
The mithril swan wings were finally finished, the sword complete. It had been almost five days of toil, five days of sweat and filth. The Noldor were almost too tired to stand, weak from lack of sleep and food. Fileglin’s voice had become little more than a quiet rasp, no longer able to drown out the sound of hammering fists against the barred doors, or the raised voices and calls of anger from those that sought entry to the forges. The sword of Anglachelm stood almost as tall as Ruineth, the blade the width of Estarfin’s pale hand. The handle had been wrapped in thin golden wire, contrasting with the silver metal of the pommel, shaped into the head of a swan. The eyes were rubies, red as blood. The winged crossguard was of mithril, the last that could be found within the valley of Imladris. A red leather scabbard lay ready upon the table, and only one thing remained. The smiths waited patiently until Fileglin was finished, and then beckoned him over. He stood slowly, wincing as his joints protested at sitting for so long.
“Name it” Estarfin spoke quietly.
Fileglin looked the sword up and down, and then spoke a single word. “Ennartar.”
“Soul kindler. So be it. Ruineth, pass me the chisel and hammer.” Estarfin took the offered tools, and inscribed the name into the blade. “The sword must be quenched. Take hold of the blade.”
Ruineth, Dilathion and Fileglin grasped the blade of the sword gently. Estarfin pulled the sword upwards, the razor-sharp steel claiming the blood that was due to it. Passing the handle of the sword to Ruineth, Estarfin took hold of the blade himself with both hands, his knuckles whitening as he grasped the steel tight. With one swift motion, Ruineth yanked the sword upwards, deep cuts opening on both of Estarfin’s palms and coating the metal with his blood.
“We are finished, finally.” Estarfin took the scabbard from the table, offering the opening to Ruineth who slid the blade into the sheath. “Unbar the doors, then step back. If there is a price to be paid for our hubris, then I will pay it. Say nothing, and do not intervene. I would not see you punished for aiding in this.”
Dilathion moved to the doors, pulling the oak beam clear and stepping back as the heavy doors banged open. Galuoneth and Dringlinn stood there behind Mallenhadh, Celeblas and Mirdoron, all of whom were armed and angry at being kept waiting for so long.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Celeblas, looking at the four exhausted Noldor in the dim forge. When no response came, she asked again. “Well?”
Estarfin took the sheathed sword from Ruineth and stepped forwards. “There was work to be done, important work.”
“This is your doing then? You return to the Valley after so long in the wilds and now you think you have the right to take over this entire forge? You forget yourself Estarfin, your House does not hold sway here. You will answer for this. Hand over that sword, and follow me.”
“No. Your hand is not fit to touch this weapon Celeblas, despite your vaunted position amongst Lord Elrond’s household.”
Mirdoron snarled at such haughty words and took a pace forward, his hand falling to the sword at his side. “You speak proud words for a wastrel from the wilds. If you will not hand over the sword, it will accompany you to the holding cells.”
Mirdoron and Mallenhadh stepped forward, grabbing Estarfin by the shoulders and pulling him out of the forge, past Celeblas who smiled smugly at him, and Galuoneth and Dringlinn who took a step back, a look of distaste upon their faces. Their boots ground the gold coins deeper into the sand as they left the forge for the bright air of morning in the Valley.
