Creation of a Sword
The forge was dark save for the glow of the fire and the glow of power in the smith’s eyes. His gaze was cool and concentrated on a heated length of metal protruding out of the fire. Time passed interminably as the tall figure simply watches the fire, occasionally turning the length this way or that way.
“This must be perfect.” He says at last, slowly withdrawing the alloy and heading towards the anvil. With deft fingers he picks up the hammer and begins, the sound of his blows reverberating outside the darkened forge.
…
The hours have passed into days and he has nearly finished his task, the length of metal now shaped, folded and honed into something quite different. Slightly curved, thin and already with a quite deadly appearance before even being sharpened. It is a sword and there is one final step left in its forging.
Quietly a servant enters, plainly and crisply dressed in white, placing two bowls of clear water and a towel down before him on a far table before bowing gracefully and backing out to continue their vigil on guard of their master outside. With care, and some ceremony he washes his hands in the clear water of one bowl and dries his hands looking at the glowing sword thoughtfully where it rests above the glowing fire keeping it molten.
In silence he picks up the sword and places it above the forge, allowing the smallest amount of power to touch the blade, making it hover above the metal beneath. Then, in the swiftest of motions he draws a knife from his belt and draws it across his other palm, blood immediately welling to the surface. Quickly he brings his hand over the blade he has forged so the first drop of blood lands accurately onto the hot metal sizzling as it touches it. He continues on allowing drop after drop to fall from his hand to the blade, the silver of the heated blade slowly taking on a reddish sheen. At last he nods as if satisfied and draws his hand back the wound quickly closing.
For a moment he surveys the blade again before turning for the other bowl of pure water and pouring the water over the heated metal. Smoke rises from the blade, the sound of water boiling and sizzling filling the small forge as the metal is set into place. With care he reaches for the cooling metal and leaves, the flames of the fire cooling to embers behind him. …
In the quiet of a small courtyard of his villa, his personal servant as ever in attendance he kneels facing the rising sun and begins to sharpen the blade, honing it into one of the sharpest blades ever created. In slow careful motions he moves the sword over the whetstone, continuously keeping everything soaked with purified water from the nearby pond. Then with the greatest of care he attaches the polished wooden handle onto the blade. The only embellishment a snake arcing around the handle, carved out of the wood.
At last it was finished, it was complete.
For a moment more he sits, eyes looking towards the sun now high in the sky, smiling happily at his now finished creation. A unique blade, for a unique individual, and an idea dawns. With care he sends his power down the blade, etching the blade slowly with an inscription in hieroglyphics, a promise.