B-13 - Erulisse - An Icy Blade
Mar. 29th, 2012 08:08 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Challenge: B-13 – Artifacts and Weapons - Ringil
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Fingolfin, Lord Aulë
Pairings: None
Word Count: 966
Summary: In response to a dream, Fingolfin is driven to create a unique sword and asks Lord Aulë for the use of his forge and his assistance.
An Icy Blade
“Clang...clang...clang...hissssss,” came the sounds from the back of the forge. As Lord Aulë passed by the smith, he cast a sharp glance in the direction of the anvil, assessing the progress of the work. Everything seemed to be going well; the metal was conforming to the will of Fingolfin. The regular sounds of the hammer started up again as the elf continued working. Finwë’s second son was not renowned for his skills in the forge, but he was the brother of Fëanáro, and even if not as talented at crafting as his older half-brother, he was, he was still comfortable forming metal to serve his needs. Today he was making a sword.
Although Melkor had been wandering through the various groups of peoples talking about weapons, many of the children of those who had undertaken the Great Journey had actually been taught about various weapons by their own parents. Finwë had talked to his sons about how his people had armed themselves both to hunt food as well as to protect themselves against the servants of the Hunter while walking from Lake Cuiviénen to the western shore of Beleriand. It was on that journey that Finwë first learned the craft of a smith and it was a skill that he had passed down to each of his sons.
Swords were also known in Aman, although here, in this protected land, they only served ceremonial functions. Some of the old weapons, those that had crossed over from the other side of the sea, were hung in the homes of their wielders, holding positions of honor above the hearth or in their libraries or private studies.
To Lord Aulë’s eye, however, it was apparent that this sword was not going to hang on a wall. This sword was going to be used with deadly purpose and was being forged to drink blood.
Fingolfin had come to him, begging the use of his forge and his assistance to make a weapon for justice and protection. 'A sharp weapon' to protect those he loved from unknown forces, he had said.
“Why do you wish to make a weapon of this aspect?” the Vala had asked.
“I know not why specifically, Lord. For several nights in a row I have been sent a dream. In this dream I see myself in front of massive gates battling an entity of great evil to achieve the freedom of the Noldorin people. In my hand I see a sword which is gleaming with the glow of deep ice but which features a keen edge of surpassing sharpness. Therefore, I beg use of your forge and your assistance to fulfill my dream and protect my people.”
Lord Aulë looked thoughtfully at the Prince standing in front of him. After a few moments, he said, “Very well, Fingolfin, I will allow your use of my forge and, when you need it, I will lend my assistance.”
At the end of a six-day of near-constant work Fingolfin appeared drained of energy. He had heated, hammered, folded, hammered, quenched, heated, and then hammered again. With each step the blade had sounded stronger, its Song had grown louder and louder. To Lord Aulë’s ears it rang harmoniously and blended into a synchronous rhythm with its maker.
The Vala walked up to the exhausted smith and took the blade into his hand, examining it closely. Its edge was wickedly sharp, easily able to cut a piece of silk dropped onto it from above. Aulë nodded and then handed the blade back to Fingolfin. “One last time, heat the blade to red hot,” he instructed.
Fingolfin nodded, and thrusting the blade into the coals, began to work the bellows, heating the coals to red hot. Soon the blade shimmered with the heat.
Lord Aulë walked to the blade. “Place your arm on the anvil, son of Finwë,” he ordered. The Master took the red-hot blade into his bare hand and turning suddenly, sliced across the Elf’s arm with the sharp-edged blade.
“What the!” exclaimed Fingolfin in a shocked tone of voice. The smell of burning flesh filled the forge then a breeze swept it away. While Fingolfin watched, Lord Aulë lifted the blade away from the arm and then turned, drenching the still-glowing blade into the nearby bucket. Instead of an open wound where the blade had drawn down the Prince's arm, there was a fine line of burnt, cauterized flesh.
“Now your blade has tasted blood and may be safely handled,” the Vala said. “Finish it. Add the pommel and guard, and put a grip onto it. Make it a scabbard and wear it often to get used to its feel and weight. Practice with it to get used to its heft, length and power. You have made the weapon, now you have the responsibility of learning how to use it.
“I declare to you that its name shall be Ringil because it burns with a cold fire. Where other blades will have no effect, it will smite the enemy. You have done well, son of Finwë.” And with that, the Vala turned and walked away.
Many years later Fingolfin wielded Ringil against others. It first drew blood when drawn against the Teleri at the kinslaying of Alqualondë, then it proved her worth during the horrific crossing of the Helcaraxë, and finally after many smaller battles of less merit, it entered into legend when used against Morgoth in single combat. This battle which was fought in front of the giant gates to Morgoth's lands, ended with Fingolfin's death. But in his last act, he slashed down with Ringil, slicing the Dark Vala’s left foot so badly that he never again walked without pain. Truly the Prince had made a sword of surpassing sharpness and protected his people through its use.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Fingolfin, Lord Aulë
Pairings: None
Word Count: 966
Summary: In response to a dream, Fingolfin is driven to create a unique sword and asks Lord Aulë for the use of his forge and his assistance.
An Icy Blade
“Clang...clang...clang...hissssss,” came the sounds from the back of the forge. As Lord Aulë passed by the smith, he cast a sharp glance in the direction of the anvil, assessing the progress of the work. Everything seemed to be going well; the metal was conforming to the will of Fingolfin. The regular sounds of the hammer started up again as the elf continued working. Finwë’s second son was not renowned for his skills in the forge, but he was the brother of Fëanáro, and even if not as talented at crafting as his older half-brother, he was, he was still comfortable forming metal to serve his needs. Today he was making a sword.
Although Melkor had been wandering through the various groups of peoples talking about weapons, many of the children of those who had undertaken the Great Journey had actually been taught about various weapons by their own parents. Finwë had talked to his sons about how his people had armed themselves both to hunt food as well as to protect themselves against the servants of the Hunter while walking from Lake Cuiviénen to the western shore of Beleriand. It was on that journey that Finwë first learned the craft of a smith and it was a skill that he had passed down to each of his sons.
Swords were also known in Aman, although here, in this protected land, they only served ceremonial functions. Some of the old weapons, those that had crossed over from the other side of the sea, were hung in the homes of their wielders, holding positions of honor above the hearth or in their libraries or private studies.
To Lord Aulë’s eye, however, it was apparent that this sword was not going to hang on a wall. This sword was going to be used with deadly purpose and was being forged to drink blood.
Fingolfin had come to him, begging the use of his forge and his assistance to make a weapon for justice and protection. 'A sharp weapon' to protect those he loved from unknown forces, he had said.
“Why do you wish to make a weapon of this aspect?” the Vala had asked.
“I know not why specifically, Lord. For several nights in a row I have been sent a dream. In this dream I see myself in front of massive gates battling an entity of great evil to achieve the freedom of the Noldorin people. In my hand I see a sword which is gleaming with the glow of deep ice but which features a keen edge of surpassing sharpness. Therefore, I beg use of your forge and your assistance to fulfill my dream and protect my people.”
Lord Aulë looked thoughtfully at the Prince standing in front of him. After a few moments, he said, “Very well, Fingolfin, I will allow your use of my forge and, when you need it, I will lend my assistance.”
At the end of a six-day of near-constant work Fingolfin appeared drained of energy. He had heated, hammered, folded, hammered, quenched, heated, and then hammered again. With each step the blade had sounded stronger, its Song had grown louder and louder. To Lord Aulë’s ears it rang harmoniously and blended into a synchronous rhythm with its maker.
The Vala walked up to the exhausted smith and took the blade into his hand, examining it closely. Its edge was wickedly sharp, easily able to cut a piece of silk dropped onto it from above. Aulë nodded and then handed the blade back to Fingolfin. “One last time, heat the blade to red hot,” he instructed.
Fingolfin nodded, and thrusting the blade into the coals, began to work the bellows, heating the coals to red hot. Soon the blade shimmered with the heat.
Lord Aulë walked to the blade. “Place your arm on the anvil, son of Finwë,” he ordered. The Master took the red-hot blade into his bare hand and turning suddenly, sliced across the Elf’s arm with the sharp-edged blade.
“What the!” exclaimed Fingolfin in a shocked tone of voice. The smell of burning flesh filled the forge then a breeze swept it away. While Fingolfin watched, Lord Aulë lifted the blade away from the arm and then turned, drenching the still-glowing blade into the nearby bucket. Instead of an open wound where the blade had drawn down the Prince's arm, there was a fine line of burnt, cauterized flesh.
“Now your blade has tasted blood and may be safely handled,” the Vala said. “Finish it. Add the pommel and guard, and put a grip onto it. Make it a scabbard and wear it often to get used to its feel and weight. Practice with it to get used to its heft, length and power. You have made the weapon, now you have the responsibility of learning how to use it.
“I declare to you that its name shall be Ringil because it burns with a cold fire. Where other blades will have no effect, it will smite the enemy. You have done well, son of Finwë.” And with that, the Vala turned and walked away.
Many years later Fingolfin wielded Ringil against others. It first drew blood when drawn against the Teleri at the kinslaying of Alqualondë, then it proved her worth during the horrific crossing of the Helcaraxë, and finally after many smaller battles of less merit, it entered into legend when used against Morgoth in single combat. This battle which was fought in front of the giant gates to Morgoth's lands, ended with Fingolfin's death. But in his last act, he slashed down with Ringil, slicing the Dark Vala’s left foot so badly that he never again walked without pain. Truly the Prince had made a sword of surpassing sharpness and protected his people through its use.
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