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CLANG CLANG CLANG The sound of metal on metal echoing through the room and ringing in my ears. The heat from the furnace washing over everything. Drenched in sweat, arms already aching from the effort, I continued to hammer the rough metal on the anvil beneath me. Heat the metal, fold the metal, cool the metal, tamp the metal into shape. Repeat it all over again. I've done it a hundred times before, and I'll do it a hundred more. This night was different. This blade was different. This was to be my masterwork. And it required every ounce of skill and concentration I had. I couldn't rest. The metal couldn't be allowed to heat or cool improperly. Too quickly or too slowly, and it would all be for naught. It had to be hard and sharp, but not too brittle. All through the night, without pause for food or drink. If I had to work until dawn, so be it. Forging this sword wasn't just about the making the weapon itself, but pushing the limits of my own abilities. CLANG CLANG CLANG The fires roared with life as I pumped the bellows until the coals are glowing white hot. Most smiths would be driven outdoors by the heat, forced to wait until the fires slacked before they could continue. For most metals, this would be beyond the necessary temperature for the forge. This metal, however, required special considerations. It's the imperfections that define the metal: the brittleness, the internal stresses, and perhaps most importantly, the presence of other materials. The impurities. Impurities in metal aren't necessarily bad, as any good smith would know. In fact, the right impurity would add strength or elasticity, or reduce brittleness. This is what makes every blade unique. There's a personal lesson in there, I'm sure, about our own faults. But I'm no philosopher. This particular combination of materials was to become far greater than the sum of its parts. Only through years of experience forging with lesser ores and alloys, and some luck, was I able to discover this particular compound. Every one of my previous works, every mistake, every failure, and every lesson learned had led to this moment. The heat burned my eyes, choked my lungs. Callouses, thick from years of similar work, shifted and ached anew from the constant movement of the hammer. My skin felt like it was on fire. But the work wasn't complete, and so the pain had to continue. I was being tested, tempered, and reforged alongside the glowing metal. I had to persevere, or I would have to start all over. CLANG CLANG CLANG There would be no quenching in a bucket of water for this sword. The risk of warping the edge was too high. Even the slightest avoidable imperfection couldn't be risked. It would have to cool naturally, in the night air. All while continuing to hammer the edge to a keen, even blade. Right up to the moment the metal was too cool to reshape. Shortcuts seldom lead to true success; this was just another lesson learned long ago from the forge. Finally, with dawn breaking and the sun creeping over the horizon, I stood exhausted, barely able to hold the finished sword in my hand. Even after my greatest efforts, it couldn't be called "perfect." But it was surely as close as my efforts could get. It was a masterpiece, and any master smith would say the same. The culmination of my life's work. And yet... During the creation of this weapon, I'm almost certain that I noticed moments I could do better. Small details: temperature changes in the single digits, better air flow, a stronger hammer and anvil. All that mattered was this: It could be done better. I could do better. Perhaps my own forging is still not complete. -Sargas | |