Sting: Three Masters

Before the darkness, before the coarse voices there had been laughter and songs sung as it was forged.

Then enemies—longing to turn, to slice their rough hands as they carried it away.

Saved after innumerable years. Lifted, its crumbled sheath torn away.  Someone new, small, his hand fit it well.

Snarling goblins. Thin-legged spiders. A name at last.

Barrel-rider.

Years of waiting.

Doom. Fair gold to oppose its steadfast steely gleam.

Wraiths. Hunted.

Ringbearer.

Fear. His hands shaking.

No warrior, but his heart demanded vengeance.

Courage grew.

Blue, flickering flame; spider’s bane.

Samwise the Brave.

Andúril, Flame of the West

Trembling, still white-hot.  Elves raise it from the forge; their tongues cry loose words of power.  Runes gleam down its side.  It must protect Hope.

Yet, the sound still rings though time, will always; shattered metal as it clinked and pinged off of dead rocks, dead soil.

King and King’s son…wielded in desperate hour, soul straining, strong to wound this black, cruel thing.  Strike and struck down.

Cool velvet, reverent hands, and reverent voices. Years broken.

Sudden heat.  Time to rise again.

Only one strong enough.White flames reflected in it; in his eyes.

King’s line.

Glamdring

Gondolin—burning in the distance, master’s hand bloody and limp.  Burning white with impotent fury. Clawed hands, cries of fear and delight.  Foe-hammer found; Turgon has fallen! Cursed and spit upon. Ages pass.  A hand, a voice, a vision of power.  Hilt grasped, claimed to battle again.  At the grey traveller’s side, miles untold, till darkness reached. Flames, whip cracking, standing firm. Then depth untold, hewing the enemy, cold water and endless stair.  Victory on the cold mountain.  Then on, to the gates, to war, to the end of all tasks—to a mantle in a far, green country.

Aiglos

Lost in the end, broken and abandoned.  Its master’s spirit fleeing far from the tortured land; Gil-Galad was defeated, elven-kings can die ignobly too, body sprawled in the dust.  Wielded effortlessly for over an age, only to fall from his numb hands, now, onto the hard ground.  Near to Mordor’s gates, the orc’s calloused feet trample it as they flee. Icicle, Snow-point…names given proudly and cried aloud in battle.  It was once gleaming, the steel point sharp, the shaft polished. Now its wood has rotted to join the bones and flesh of elves and men that fell at Dagorlad.     

Gúthwinë

Newly forged compared to whom it stands by, yet he who wields it has courage enough.  Battle-Friend, aptly named, its master will have to fight all his days.  It shines in the wild north plains and in the Hornburg, gleaming bright through caked blood of orcs uncounted.  Desperate odds and desperate men; it is raised alongside of Andúril and they flame together to drive back the horde.  A night unending, never resting, it sings with the battle-fury of the sons of Eorl as the wizard’s army surges again.  Soon victory for the Mark…and a race to the white city.  

Orcrist

Stolen long ago, recovered with its mate from the trolls’ hoard, it sits now in the last hand ever imagined—a dwarf's.  Although his blood is royal and his cause noble, “Goblin-cleaver” is an elven sword and cared little for its new master.  Strapped to his belt, beard brushing the scabbard, the blade threatens to catch the ground when he bows.  Ridiculous, amusing, infuriating, it is only when it tastes goblin-blood again that it truly belongs in his hand.  And when he falls in battle, it mourns. Shining white in warning, the blade lies now forever on his tomb

Gurthang/Anglachel

The dark elf’s hands and breath brought it to life.  ‘Iron of the Flaming Star’; Beleg bore it long in honor.  Ah, but grim fate! Túrin’s misguided stroke was swift and Beleg would walk beneath the stars no more. Reforged to sit in poor friend’s hand…now ‘Iron of Death’ to serve this bitter master.  The Father of Dragons whispered treachery and sister loves brother. Eyes/hearts were blind. Glaurung’s bane, it carved its mark into the old worm’s belly and loosed the fire.  Misfortune followed Túrin’s steps and when he asked the sword answered—yea, I would.  Morgoth’s curse fulfilled.

Herugrim

Wrapped in filthy linens, hidden deep, it waited for years.  Hope faded, long since it seen the sun.  Cold hands, coward’s touch on honest steel forged to protect kings…repulsed, its spirit flamed in anger.  Where rode the lord of the Mark in all his wide lands?  Théoden was still strong enough to hold it …evil stirring …it should be raised in defense, ever only a handbreadth from his side!  At last, a worthy son of Eorl comes to claim it, returning to its master’s fingers—how they tremble. Death and victory; Théoden shall go to his forefathers with pride.

The Other Ones

Anguirel, mate of Túrin’s famous blade, was lost. Forged from the same fallen star, they followed different paths. Both identical, rare, gleaming mutedly, Eöl kept one for himself.  Avarice bloomed in the heart of Maeglin—his son stole the treasured sword and fled.  Gondolin swallowed youth and blade…

Ringil, it burned as brightly as the fierce heart of its master. Ancient tales of a glittering blade, shining like ice, contrast to the darkness of Melkor’s eyes.  Before the gates of Angband they fought alone.  Proud Fingolfin never wavered under Grond’s cruel stroke.  Farewell, High King of Noldor.       

Swords of the Westernesse, long in chill barrows they waited, till in warm sun awakened.  Little masters strode side by side in laughter and song; the blades were unthought-of, carelessly worn till uruks came and then unsheathed with still gentle hearts, the ancient swords fell touching.  Recovered, both spared from rusty neglect, miles beneath a belt till returned to little hands. Twin blades/twin hearts cast asunder, the elder faced an evil undying, the youth a foe beyond his size. Ah! But tender hands had hardened and fearless were they.  One sword withered, its life it freely gave.  One sword still grasped in broken hand; Beregond saved.  Wraith-bane, Troll-bane, divided forever, but their masters still walk together.