Finding Answers

Estarfin let out a small exclamation of frustration as he examined the shining metal in the palm of his hand; another flawed attempt after a long day spent before the forge. The alloyed steel was beautiful, but it was still too soft, too liable to be harmed. The delicate inscribing chisels he had created for the task cut too deep, splitting the grain of the metal apart. He held it up to the light once more, wondering whether such a flaw mattered. He shook his head slightly, then tossed it carelessly back into the heart of the forge. Any imperfection could not be tolerated. The metal swiftly heated red, then white. After a moment sparks started spitting from the abused metal as it burnt, then withered to ash and slag.

Estarfin wiped the back of his sleeve across his brow and stepped away from the heat, picking up a half-empty glass of wine. He walked to the window and pushed it open, ignoring the drizzle that began misting the sill. He took a sip of the wine, screwing his face up slightly at the sour taste of the glass that had been sitting for a few days. He sighed as he gazed out of the window at the swaying trees. Every attempt had failed despite the care that he took. Perhaps it was doomed to fail? The thought felt like a stone in his chest pulling him down. Was it perhaps not only the crafting that was doomed to fail?

He stood, drinking the wine for several minutes and letting thoughts of despair and anger run through his mind. He had learned long ago that at times such thoughts were necessary and could not be caged for long. Eventually the dark thoughts blew away, as a storm cloud is wont to in the face of a warm summer breeze. Perhaps the issue was the material itself, rather than the purpose? The steel was too soft, so perhaps harder steel? So far he had been using regular stock from Celondim, good steel for most purposes. Yet perhaps this needed something different? He frowned as he thought of the hard Formenos steel that he treasured above all other possessions that he still retained.

***

Barahirn, that was his name. Estarfin strode towards the stable keeper, dressed in travelling robes and light mail. He carried a few sacks, his sword and shield. "Is Gilastor ready to ride?" Estarfin called.
"Yes Lord, but he… he is reluctant. I do not know why, there is no lameness to him."
"You will refuse me friend?" Estarfin asked the tall black steed in Quenya. "Are we then to be parted? If this is your wish, so be it."
Gilastor stamped his feet and pulled on the reins that Barahirn held, eager to reach his master. "Very well, friend. One last time together then." Estarfin smiled sadly, then started strapping his gear to Gilastor.
"Thank you for your care of him Barahirn, I shall not forget it."
"Where shall I tell the Lady Danel and Parnard you are riding Lord?"
"For answers Barahirn, for answers."