The sound of a solitary hammer rang through the still evening as a young elleth bent over the anvil, brow furrowed in concentration. The forge was deserted, with only the crackling of the fire and the faint hum of the bellows to keep her company. Thick leather gloves covered her broad hands, and a coarse apron encircled her waist. A linen tunic bared her arms to the heat and clung to her shoulders, stained at the collar with sweat. Unruly chestnut hair tumbled down her back from where it was tied at the nape of her neck, glowing as if possessed by the forge-fire which flickered upon her hard, angular face.
With deliberate strokes she hammered the glowing steel upon the anvil, stopping ever and anon to check its alignment and thickness. Already the shape of a blade began to show, though the edges of the steel were as of yet rough and untouched by the grindstone. Painstakingly she hammered the blade to an even thickness, often bending down to peer sidewise at the edge. For a long time there was no sound save the rhythmic tapping her hammer and the distant hiss of the forge-fire as it smoldered behind her. She was young, but held her head proudly and an eager glint was in her eyes. As an apprentice almost finishing her term of service in Thargelion, she had one last project to complete - a pair of light blades for a warrior - before her master would release her to pursue her own craft.
The blades would be beautiful and deadly, she had resolved. She worked carefully, lavishing care upon the minutest details and frowning to herself at any imperfections in the surface of the steel. They would be her own swords, and must be as perfect as she could make them. Her master, and she herself, would tolerate no less. Her mouth curved into a satisfied smile as she finally laid the steel aside to cool. It was evening, and outside there were distant sounds of the other artisans and apprentices making merry after the evening meal. She seemed to have no ear for them, heedless of all except the partly-formed blade before her. The glowing metal gave off a bright light that seemed to pierce the dim shadows that hid in the corners of the smithy. She gazed intently at it, twirling a stray lock of hair with one finger, before a fierce of expression of delight spread across her face.
"I shall name you Aicaruinë - fierce and sharp your light will blaze in battle. Like the fire that forged you, you will burn unrelenting for as long as I draw breath." With renewed determination she took up a pair of tongs and lowered the steel into the forge.
"Now for your younger sister ..." She lowered another bar of steel into the forge, beginning the process again. Once laid upon the anvil, the steel yielded to her hammer-strokes, smoothing and reforming under her guidance. She began to whistle in a decidedly off-key manner as she worked over the steel, drawing out the metal until it began to resemble the shape of the first blade that lay yet unfinished in the forge.
"You shall be Alcaruinë," she proclaimed to the empty forge. "Your glorious flame will join your elder brother's upon the field. " With a triumphant smile she continued to work upon the steel. The hammer-strokes blended with the sounds of the forge, creating a fierce music which matched the excited pulse of blood in her veins. This was her life - her heart - her name: Makanárë, the forge's fire.
