This is a continuation of Black Iron - The Smith hammers the steel (VIII)
As the night grows longer and colder, the smith inspects the two blades he has forged. Their shape is right, their length is right, their weight is right, and there are no apparent cracks running down the hundreds, if not thousands, layers of the folded steel. The time has come for the most critical moment, the moment which will decide whether his work is indeed good enough. To quench a blade properly is the final test, the one that must not fail. He casts one final glance towards the “shame” pile, the tools and blades that did not meet his expectations, and puts the first blade back into the forge to heat it up.
He waits patiently until the blade is evenly heated, and then he takes it out again, singing as he does so. An old song of battle and war - that’s what he sings to the blade, to instill into it a fighting spirit that will match the days of yore. As he dips it into the quenching oil, a cloud of fire and smoke arise for a second, and a steaming hissing sound fills his ears. He listens for anything else that may have damaged the blade, yet he hears nothing. There is no ringing from the metal, no cracks, nothing. He removes the blade from the oil barrel, his anticipation high. With a light and skilled hand he drags a file along the edge, before he gives it a thorough smash against the work table. It behaves just as he wished it would. Yes, his work was successful indeed.
Would the second blade be the same, he wondered? He lays the second blade in the glowing forge, and sings another song. Now he sings of bravery, of honor, of courage and valor, so that the wearer of the blade will feel all of that when she holds it in her hand. These blades will not be some kind of soulless, cold steel, no. They will have spirit indeed. Again he takes it out, again he dips it into the oil, again he listens for the sound of failure, and again he hears only the sound of success.
Tonight, no ill fate of shattered steel and broken dreams will be upon his mind. The blades are strong and they are flexible, just as he envisioned them. One by one, he places the crude shapes upon the workbench, laid out before his eyes and hands to ensure they are alike, yet different. Next awaited the guards, the pommels and the handles. Each piece a little different to its twin, to serve a different purpose, and fit the hand that would wield it. A delightful symphony of darkened rosewood and oak, bronze and silver, each piece cast and shaped to be its own. And there upon the pommels he chisels away a thin layer of metal with a steady hand, to engrave and form the desired symbols in which the silver will be laid in - the sun and moon.
