A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Thirteen~

From outside, perhaps, or far away, what one might catch was a fast, heavy tink. To follow came more of these sounds, loud, repeating, but as time progressed it was getting slower. In truth, each tink sounded through his ears in a roar; surely the world's only sound. The work would end, eventually, with it the jarring pounding of the hammers, but it would take countless hours, until the product at last reached perfection.

These hours indeed went by. He felt something stretch across his face, almost a tiny smirk. He'd been so sure he couldn't do it, hadn't he?

Caranthir stepped back, glaring at the bright, hopeful brand. It was done. His hands lowered at his sides, shaking.

"Put it in the water," he growled to one of the smiths. He did as ordered, moving the glowing brand with such wariness one would think it would shatter between his fingers, before resting it in the hissing water.

Now was not time for rest. They'd heat the blade again, after resting it in water, to temper it, stengthening the metal and reducing the slightest chance of brittleness. That might take some time.

It was done anyway; after being heated and cooled first in water, then open air, Narsil glimmered, reforged, like the red fire of the evening. Caranthir still kept his eyes warily fixed to that blade, that sword which flared still despite its cooling into gray steel. He was unwilling to leave the forge; in fact he might have stayed the whole night, making sure the sword was truly completed, were it not for the uncanny reminder his work would be carried by Aragorn. The mortal's presence was like a thorn in his side, always there, always digging deep.

He did leave, shockingly, taking his exhausted self outside. Steering carefully past five relatively cheerful hobbits dining in a courtyard, he turned to a place no one would interrupt.

The library was dim and barely lit in the evening, most of the glow coming from open windows and the few candles out, flickering orange on the walls. Caranthir slipped through the door silently, heading to the bookshelf he would always head to by now. Shockingly, it was filled with history books. Most pertained to the Second Age and the early Third, books he, for now, was not looking for.

Probably out of luck he came across an account of the War of Wrath, written by some Sindarin scholar he didn't have the time to recognize. Instead of Tengwar it had been written with Daeron's runes, an interesting tool for a diary. It was so much easier to use the Fëanorian text on paper.

Mostly, the book concerned the tragedies of the war, rather than the Valar in all their ultimate glory. There were records of how the rising waters had utterly slaughtered the surviving elves and mortals, something he had not heard of earlier. He closed the thing and slipped it back in its spot.

Eärendil . . . Despite it being the very house of Elrond, there was little to nothing on Eärendil. Pathetic. Caranthir found more than he would ever want to learn of the War of Wrath and Númenor, even a record of some king Eärnil of the Second Age, but elsewhere there was nothing. Caranthir slapped his current book closed. It didn't matter, he still had plenty of time here.

A meeting was called a few days from then, in "recognition of the reforging of Narsil." Aragorn was presented the sword Caranthir reforged, and as he held it high sunlight glanced like fire over the surface. With this he renamed it Andúril, "flame of the West." Elladan smirked and said the name was 'too artistic.'

"That is a good sword," said Glorfindel to Caranthir, eyeing Andúril where Aragorn had it sheathed. "A fine job indeed."

Caranthir huffed. He was quite unwilling to admit how Curvo and his father could easily make better works -- he couldn't believe he'd even finished it.