This is a continuation of Black Iron - The Smith begins his work (IV)
Also related to The decision (V) by Turuviel
Too long a time had he tarried, for lack of inspiration and fear both. Many times over had the forge’s fire been ablaze and soon died out, only for him to put back all his tools and turn towards the open, starry skies. Alas that even a master of the arts can feel so afraid to begin, and so afraid to fail in his task. There was something about these knives that made him uneasy. The design itself was not the challenge, for he had done work more elaborate than this - no, it was something else. The silver ring he had been tasked to melt down and use for inlays felt black and dark to him, even as it glistened like the moon and stars. It was to be the beginning of something new, bright and shining, and yet he felt strangely surrounded by darkness and dire thoughts. A sigh, a deep breath, and a stomp of his foot to the floor. Enough was enough. Today he’d begin, no matter the cost. He could wait no longer, for it was not fair to the one who had requested the work.
The fire he fanned and fed, and the heat that spread in his smithy was both grand and terrifying to those who never knew what a smith’s work entailed. A fire so hot as to melt this particular elven steel, that was an artform known to the smiths of old, and a lost art to much of the rest of the world. He blew again upon the red hot coals with the large bellows, working his foot upon the pedal, while he rearranged the coal and fed it some more. The embers that rose from the forge with every blow of the bellows instilled in him the confidence needed to work the metal, and he was eager to once again hear the singing of a hammer against an anvil. His forehead was ripe with sweat and grease, his silvery hair had turned a messy grey from all the soot, and he had barely begun his work, merely preparing the forge.
It would be a long night of smithing, yes indeed a long night of smelting, hammering and grinding, until he was satisfied with the daggers he’d present to her. The fire roared and the cool air trembled above it, and all the smells that surrounded him was a pleasant reminder. He inhaled deeply, to set his mind a-straight for the task ahead. The smell of coals and smoke, metals and rust, sweat and grease, wet leather and cloth… the forge was ready, and he was too. Behind him on the worktable, there awaited the ingots that would become the grand prize. Six of them, for different purposes. And there was also the dreaded silver ring, which he hoped would leave all its darkness behind once melted down and used for the inlays.
With a steadfast hand he grips the tongs and then the first ingot. He drops it into the glowing red coal, and the fire roars with delight over what marvelous steel it would now feast upon. Ingot after ingot he feeds to the fire, to weave the metals together and form blades that would be strong as thunder and sharp as a razor, yet would not lose its edge or break. Finally he would truly begin his work, and now there was no turning back.
