Born from Stone (A Thorin Oakenshield story)

A night by the river

In the meantime down at one of the abandoned blacksmith vaults, Thorin had ignited the fire of one station and was hammering away his troubles. The hard clanking of metal echoed again and again inside the black walls of the cavern, for the first time after centuries. The bellows huffed and puffed, feeding the fire and making sweat cover every inch of his body. The large white bandage around his chest was clearly visible under his untied tunic, a small reminder that he died and came back to life not so long ago as he brought down his hammer on the surface of the metal repeatedly.

The pain when he began forging the rough metal rod had been excruciating, but he purposely ignored it and as he continued to hammer away, the pain slowly began numbing down. With every muscle in his body cold and unused the first throws of the hammer on the anvil were harder than he had anticipated, but several hours later his body was blazing hot from the manual labour and every pain faded away, as his mind emptied like it always did when he was working like that. He had been forging out his frustrations since he was a young boy, barely able to lift the hammer. Once he discovered the therapeutic abilities of using his body to transform hard metal into art, there was no turning back. This sometimes felt even better than playing his harp. With music his mind was travelling at places of peace and tranquility. The demanding and powerful nature of forging, emptied his mind complete of all thoughts. Minutes turned into hours and he barely even noticed. His hair and body was so sweaty he looked like he had just got off the river and he didn't even feel it. The muscles on the palm of his hands were aching from the scorching heat and he gritted his teeth against the need to put down the hammer. Time and time again he brought it down with gritted teeth, until the metal rod began forming into an impressive long double edged sword.

His eyes seared into the fire as he held the sword by it's tip in order to heat up the hilt and then he took out his smaller tools. The tools of the real artistry of dwarven swords. The ones that only the blacksmith masters were able to work. Only when he opened his forgotten leather satchel, did he allow himself to sit on a low wooden stool and rest his heavy fur boots at the side of the anvil. His elbows barely felt the heat of the metal surface as he leaned close to the hilt and began working meticulously on the intricate design. Drops of sweat trickled down the metal surface as he picked up smaller metal pieces and melted them to a point where they could be easily moulded. Then he began twisting them around the already smooth hilt in airy shapes that originally would make no sense to the eye of a stranger. To his experienced eyes though the design was clear as the sun. His long dampened hair stuck to his temples and cheeks. Several longer strands got entangled around the forearm of his working hand, but he didn't stop his meticulous work to clear them away. Sweat run in small rivulets down his face and neck, sticking his tunic on his skin, but he only felt was the magic that he creating as the thin metal strands were twisting and turning around the hilt, slowly forming the head and front legs of the beast he intended to put on this sword.

He remained there mesmerised under his own artistic spell until the caw of Roac made him look up briefly. The black master of Ravenhill flew down through the corridors, entered the vaults and landed gently on his exposed wide shoulder with confidence. Thorin didn't lift his eyes from his delicate work as Roac gave him the information he had required with a quiet voice into his ear.

"Thank you," he said when the crow had finished.

Roac cowed his reply and flew away as quickly as he had appeared. Thorin's relief made his hand loose it's grip of the delicate carving tools that fell out of his large hands. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers between his eyebrows feeling his heart soothed in ways words could never describe. He remained like that, his shadow covering the intricate design he had been working on for a long time. The blazing fire began dying down and the sword became too cold to be worked upon. It was the voice of his sister that made him peak from under the palm of his hand.