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Through the Fire |
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As The Children Do |
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Through the Fire
Short
 Created on 6-13-08
 Views(17)
 Story Rating G
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A shower of sparks fell from the red-hot iron with every fell stroke of the hammer. A rough dwarven hand exerted the hammer’s blows with masterful precision. Another hand clamped down on the iron with an old pair of tongs.
Another strike from the hammer; sparks flew in all directions, some falling to the ground, some falling onto the worn anvil. Others found refuge in a long, white beard. There, they singed the dwarf’s hairs, blackening the whiteness until finally dying out like the rest. The dwarf’s beard was speckled with such black spots.
Another strike from the hammer; the U-shaped length of iron was beginning to cool. The metal responded less and less to the dwarf’s brutish advocation as it hardened, solidified. Placing the hammer down on the anvil, the white-haired dwarf gripped the tongs with both hands. He carried the iron to the furnace. There, the fire would plead the dwarf’s case with the iron.
The art of the blacksmith had taught this dwarf much. The dwarf fashioned swords, axes, and shields; shirts of mail, plated greaves, and scaled gauntlets. All were made from the same stuff, but took on different tasks for the master. A great sword was hardly an effective helmet, and a helmet is not sufficient as a mining pick. The material itself was not so important, nor as obviously significant as the design.
The fire goaded the metal into a more malleable form as the dwarf gripped the tongs tightly. It was not good for the metal to fall into the fire. It was the fire’s purpose to test the iron, not to ruin it entirely.
Calloused hands brought the iron back to the anvil, and the dwarf resumed his work. The iron was much softer now. Another strike from the hammer; its shape changed visibly this time. The fire had successfully convinced the iron of its obligation.
The dwarf remembered the fire of his late master when he had been only an apprentice. He had been made to strike with the hammer, and grip with the tongs until his young dwarven hands blistered and bled. It was difficult for the young dwarf to see the purpose of fire when it was raging all around him, but in hindsight he could now see the fruits of his suffering unfold. The sword that bit orcish hide was his fruit. The shield that guarded dwarven life was his fruit. The wisdom he had been taught through struggle; that, too, was his fruit.
The iron hissed as it was immersed in water. It emerged to the gleaming eye of a proud craftsman. What a fine horseshoe he had made.
Another strike from the hammer; sparks flew in all directions, some falling to the ground, some falling onto the worn anvil. Others found refuge in a long, white beard. There, they singed the dwarf’s hairs, blackening the whiteness until finally dying out like the rest. The dwarf’s beard was speckled with such black spots.
Another strike from the hammer; the U-shaped length of iron was beginning to cool. The metal responded less and less to the dwarf’s brutish advocation as it hardened, solidified. Placing the hammer down on the anvil, the white-haired dwarf gripped the tongs with both hands. He carried the iron to the furnace. There, the fire would plead the dwarf’s case with the iron.
The art of the blacksmith had taught this dwarf much. The dwarf fashioned swords, axes, and shields; shirts of mail, plated greaves, and scaled gauntlets. All were made from the same stuff, but took on different tasks for the master. A great sword was hardly an effective helmet, and a helmet is not sufficient as a mining pick. The material itself was not so important, nor as obviously significant as the design.
The fire goaded the metal into a more malleable form as the dwarf gripped the tongs tightly. It was not good for the metal to fall into the fire. It was the fire’s purpose to test the iron, not to ruin it entirely.
Calloused hands brought the iron back to the anvil, and the dwarf resumed his work. The iron was much softer now. Another strike from the hammer; its shape changed visibly this time. The fire had successfully convinced the iron of its obligation.
The dwarf remembered the fire of his late master when he had been only an apprentice. He had been made to strike with the hammer, and grip with the tongs until his young dwarven hands blistered and bled. It was difficult for the young dwarf to see the purpose of fire when it was raging all around him, but in hindsight he could now see the fruits of his suffering unfold. The sword that bit orcish hide was his fruit. The shield that guarded dwarven life was his fruit. The wisdom he had been taught through struggle; that, too, was his fruit.
The iron hissed as it was immersed in water. It emerged to the gleaming eye of a proud craftsman. What a fine horseshoe he had made.
Comments
Please Login to post comments| On June 20th 2008 Lorianne13 Said : | |
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This is sweet! Well written, fun vocabulary, it was good. Is it a story,or just a random writting, or both? |
