This is a continuation of Black Iron - The Smith quenches the blades (X)
Dawn came fast approaching. The black steel blades laid upon the table, ready to be brought together with the carefully and highly detailed parts that would form the handle. Each piece of the handles were different, and one of the knives would be slightly heavier for it, perhaps. Yet this was all part of the design. The blades would be twins indeed, yet different enough to distinguish their own unique features, for a family is never quite the same. The bronze fittings slide with ease upon the tangs, and so does the roughly shaped wood. Fitting all parts together is a game of patience and detail, leaving nothing to chance. Even one single drag with a file or knife could be disastrous for the final fit. Yet no mistakes were made upon this dawn, and soon these knives that had both delighted, terrified and plagued him for the past year, could finally be given to their owner.
He begins to grind the blades upon his many whetstones. First a rough stone to produce the general shapes and angles he desired, then moving in steps to finer stones to lay down a good polish and the increasingly sharper edges. Yet it is not quite done. The blades still lack that final touch, that very last polishing that gives the metal a true shine, but all has its time. First, the hilts need to be put together. As he assembles the parts, he sings yet again to them. A song of how history’s wings beat over millennia, and how these blades will go into their own legend one day, and perhaps they will have a song of their own. Hours pass, and morning has come and gone as the knives are put together, one by one. Only a couple of things remain.
He turns towards a small wooden box upon the table. Within awaits the darkness which has kept him from finishing his work for so long. The dreaded silver ring, as beautiful and masterfully crafted it is, will have one final purpose: to clear it from the dreaded aura of pain and sadness that surrounds it, and replace it with one of hope and courage for whatever awaits in the future. With a sharp tool he cleaves it in two, and to his surprise the pieces fall off the workbench, and land upon the floor. One final struggle from the dreaded ring to flee its fate, but to no avail. Nothing can stop him from doing what he must.
He places the rings in a small crucible, and melts the silver. From the melted metal he forms a sun and moon each, exactly like the thin engravings in the pommels, and they fit perfectly within the thin lines. Pleased with his work, he lays down the nearly finished blades upon the work bench. One thing is still missing: that final touch and polish. He takes out his whetstones again, now starting with the finest, smoothest stones to finish off the edge and make it sharp as a razor. One final drag upon a piece of leather, and the edge is as good as it will ever be, sharp enough to cleave a single hair along its length.
The wood and bronze hilt he sands and polishes, until there’s not a single trace of a toolmark, scratch or imperfection. Perhaps it is too much to ask for a weapon of war, which will see plenty of damage over the years - but he was never one to leave a creation half-done. He then creates the sheaths out of sturdy leather, and engraves the same symbols of sun and moon upon them, as well as other patterns that compliment the blades within. The hours pass by swiftly, until the evening arrives and he finally puts down the finished knives upon the table for one final inspection, before placing them carefully in a padded wooden box to rest through the night, before they are passed to their new owner. He is pleased, and he hopes she will be too.
