The hammer fit well into his hand, the warm wooden handle bending to the will of the ancient Master who had used it to craft many things, both of beauty and of death. Solemnly it was raised, and for the first time in this Age it fell like bells ringing against glowing steel. Flakes of ash splintered from the bent ingot and littered the anvil, the old familiar stain, the old familiar shape. Again and again the hammer-bell tolled, and the blade that was its toil came into view. Every chime was a funeral dirge, and the Master wept. Tears rolled down his fair cheeks and fell hissing upon the cruel steel soaked in hell-fire, for this would be his last and worst labour.
~~~~~
"She is setting out upon her Journey, Father. Does that not trouble you?"
The words, grim but true, clawed at his mind like a savage beast. It had been some months since the youngest of the family, the gentle Finnasar, Cesistya by her chosen-name, made open her wish to explore the world. Lassiel her mother was pleased at this, but Rautano was fearful, for the world had grown wild beyond the skill of his timid daughter, and Thandind her brother had bent his will on her journey being made safe.
"It troubles me, Thandind, but I know what you would ask... and I cannot. Enough blood has been spilt by my hands, I have sworn against it; will you have me break my oath again?"
The young elf, clad in the green armour of the Watch of Lorien, stepped to his father and spoke with rising wrath.
"I would have you break a thousand oaths, for they are all the lesser than the one you took when she came into this world."
No response came from Rautano, for there was no greater love in his heart than for his gentle daughter, yet that selfsame love stayed his voice and clouded his vision. Darkness crept into his brown eyes, and he faltered, seeing the path before him and wishing he did not have to walk it, and this weakness Thandind found; ever the cunning warrior, his sharp tongue lashed out for the killing strike:
"There is no time left. If you do not provide her with a sword fit for her hand, I will."
~~~~~
Hour by hour the fell deed was wrought. Perhaps it was his still desire to not finish that the blade was made short, or the muscle-memory of the Master who knew it would need to fit the small body accustomed to running and hiding in the shrubs growing on the river-bank. That it could be the latter only made heavier the Master's unwilling arm, for such skill he no longer wished to possess; instead, it seemed to possess him. Unbidden it returned of old; with cunning hands he forged the steel and with elf-hair made it supple, but the edge he hardened with oil and salt and clay. Already mired in the pits of despair, his heart sank into the mire at the thought of honing the edge with stone and water, for this was now a blade of a master Elf-smith, akin to the skill of Gondolin at its height, yet studied and honed in the West of West, in Eldamar, in the days of the forges of Fëanor. Such a blade would hew limbs as if they were tufts of grass, and drink well the blood of the enemies of those who would wield it. Even now, held in the Master's grip, it glowed soft and blue, even without the heat of the fire.
"Now I am Rautano the Thrice-Cursed," the Master spoke, his voice cracked under the weight of his task. "Two swords have I forged, and two sons have I lost to war... here now is my third, and so shall go my daughter. The Sacrifice of Lassiel was in vain, and Finnasar the Red shall be blood-stained. I am broken."
Stones were brought for the blade to be edged, and with each pass the Master uttered curses for his failures and begged the Valar for hope for his daughter, yet he knew deaf ears had been turned to him from the West. Swiftly in his skilled hands the blade was honed, it's blue aura blazing like lightning from a mountain-storm, but slow grew the Master's movements, yet he could not abandon the course; had Thandind chosen a blade, it would have been from the weapons-vault of the March-wardens, a blade suited for slaughter, a lesser blade, a cruel blade, too heavy for Finnasar; she would have been frightened by it at her side. Nay, though this labour be a cursed one, it was still a lesser curse, and one borne by the back where many others already rested. It must be finished.
Taking the blade by the tang, the Master held it aloft. Straight and true it was, perfect in every way; even the Master's keen eye could not see where the razor-sharp edge ended. His grip went firm, his right leg slid back; no mere smith he was, but a Master of Blades both in their crafting and their use. The tendons in his legs went taught, his shoulders shifted back, the blade came down to his side, the edge forward. The dam burst. He issued forth like a pather sprung from the grass, his target a bundle of green reeds bound with twine. "This shall be the first," he thought, even as a cry of hatred and anguish fell from his lips, "Forgive me, Cesistya!" Up swept the blade, singing as it rent the air, an arc of blue light left in its wake.
The reeds bent, the twine slipped from the bundle and fell. Each long blade found its way upright again, in its own way, in its own time. Not a dent or scar remained.
Rautano bent his brow and looked at the blade. It was long since he had wielded this skill, but surely it had not left him. Had he not sharpened it? But no, even without sharpening such an assault would have crushed and broken the firm but tender grass. He passed his thumb over the edge, and the sword's blue aura faded; in truth, this was the keenest blade he had ever made, the opus of his craft; his soul he poured into it, and none finer would come from his hands. Yet though he pressed his flesh upon it, the blade would not bite. New hope welled in his heart, and he tried again, to a young sapling this time, but got only a few flecks of bark for his trouble. Fresh tears blurred his vision, not of pain but of joy, for now he realized; truly this was the blade for Cesistya the Gentle, and he held it aloft and he spoke aloud its true name:
"So you are wrought, and you are named Alacíma, the Blade Without Edge! And by this blade I know my sins are at last forgiven!"
In desperate hope he turned toward the West, but his shoulders fell in the silence that followed, for he heard not its call. "It is not my time," he said, and looked once more at the blade in his hands, and grew solemn, "... by my sons I have suffered my sins, and by my wife and daughter am I made free, and my life is saved... so it shall be forefeit to them, and unto the Ending of the World and its Remaking I shall go whither they will. I am ready to depart, but I shall only at their behest." He turned his back to the West and returned to his work, but the fires of his heart were quenched, and an unending weariness took his body.
~~~~~
Fingers of sunlight reached through the mellyrn-canopy to caress the cross-guard and pommel of polished gold and silver, and play subtle shadows across the woven leather hilt. No gems were inlaid into the metal, nor unnecessary decoration. Hidden within the soft leather sheath was Alacíma, the Edgeless, and it bore runes of warding. It rested now upon Rautano's open hands, an offering he held out for his daughter to take, but she had refused.
"I have not the skill to wield this blade, nor the desire, Dear Father."
Thus she pleaded, but Rautano looked past her eyes to his son, who stood gravely behind her. The grey cloak about his shoulders was shifted by his elbow, for his hand moved to grip a hidden parcel at his sword-side, and Rautano knew well what awaited there; Thandind had brought a blade to give to Cesistya, and waited to see if Rautano would fail to deliver. This he could not let happen, and he spoke,
"If you will not take this blade for yourself, Finnasar, I beg you take it for us, your Brother and I, for though you will never use it," the words roused the anger of Thandind, and he would have stepped forth to deny Rautano but for the truth they carried, "many restless nights we will suffer if you walk the many roads of this world without a weapon at your side."
Cesistya took the blade into her slender fingers, but she spoke, and her voice was soft and touched with fear and doubt, "I shall accept this gift, Father, if it pleases you... but I fear, should I ever use it, I shall be the one who suffers."
Rautano was relieved, but Thandind hung his head in grief and shame.
~~~~~
So the Blade Without Edge traveled South with the Red Elf, following Anduin into the forest of Fangorn, then into the realm of the Horse Lords, where it was checked at the Doors of Meduseld, and the Men there would not deign to touch it. It was checked once more before the Doors of the Hall of Ecthelion the First, where it was kept in honour, and the Men of the Blood of Westerness marveled with delight at the skill of the Elves. Further East it traveled, to the salted Sea and the Red Mountains, and there the Dwarves begged for the secrets of its forging, but though Cesistya taught them all that her father had taught her, she knew not the secrets of the blade, nor had she any desire to learn, and so the Dwarves were denied. But their skill was enough to know that the blade had many secrets, and in their wisdom they told not the one who carried it, for they deemed it should be she who discovers them. West now it turned, taking many wandering paths until at last it reached Erebor at the height of the power of Thrain, and there again it was honoured, unto the coming of Smaug, when it and the Red Elf fled to the Caves of Thranduil. Through the forest it reached the Vales, then south into the lands wrought with the wars of orcs and dwarves. At last it returned to Lothlórien, where it stayed for a time until the Second Journey, where south again it passed through the Gap of Rohan, then north to Rivendell where the Dúnedain wished it to be drawn alongside their own in the defense of the Northlands. But Cesistya had by then honed her healing-craft, and found it more reason to not cause injury. The sword stayed at her side into the ice-lands of Forochel, where though she hunted with the natives she drew it not, for a small knife sufficed to clean the game. Into Ered Luin and once more under the Earth, and here the sword saw its last honour, for in the Elf-lands of Mithlond it was thought of little, and in the Shire it was forgotten, in spite of the many questions of the eastern Hobbits. On this page of the story it resides in Bree-land, hidden beneath the coat of the Red Elf.
And there she is content to let it lie, not knowing its True Name even after carrying it over four hundred years, for not once has it been drawn in anger or fear, and not once has it tasted the blood of friend or foe, but ever it shall glow with the wishes of her Father to keep her safe from all harms that would beset her.
