The Forged Sword
(Prose)
In the land of uncertainty, the young squire was in need of something good with which to fight his battles. He only knew not what. He was ridiculed for his desire, and his lack of skill and foresight. Some would call him naive and weak. Though that which was good, maliable in his heart and soul made him more powerful than any one knew. He longed to be as brave and courageous as the handsome Knights he saw proceeding onto thier perilous journeys, in search of truth, and what was right, and the boy was drawn to that life like a steed to a refreshing stream.
In the beginning, It was not much more than a hardened material, all but maliable in most every way. It was metal, steel, ferrous, but not strong or worthy of anything positive, until those clever enough took thier knowlege of many years, trials, failures and gained experience to thrust it into the hellish fires to concentrate this otherwise useless form. From there it was poured into molds, templates of what a good weapon might be. It was still not strong enough to fight the battles that lay before it, more punishment must lay ahead for this tool of righteousness. It must be strong, and rigid, but not brittle,... elastic and tolerant of the clash of other torments yet not break. It was not ready. Before the sword could find itself capable in battles, in defending truth, and the unmistakable duty that lay ahead, it must continue its rigorous punishment, relentless pounding and drudgery must be inserted into the metal, and with each pounding, it became stronger. The hellish fires from which It came, would not be enough as well. It must undertake more fire, among infernal chambers, bellowing the toxic product which among no thing could survive; but the sword. The sword enveloped again and again among the fires and brimstone, plunged into cold water as if a tortured captive, taken out and beaten again and again, as if the slave in a barbaric quary. It as if the punishment that no man could endure should it countiued, untill if as by some finnal cerimony the wet stone grinds the once rough object into a perfect blade.
Out of the dismal trenches and dank caves comes something beautiful. Strong, but flexible, powerful and relentless, yet true and righteous in the hands of noble man. From the depths of the earth it was dark, yet after the trial it has become irridescent, a brilliant weapon. Fit for the battles, ready to win what it has been meant to win.
So did the squire go through similar trials on his path to the sword. Humiliation from his inexperience, eventually faded away to triump in his inestimable skills. He sought on amid great dangers and struggles to assume his desires and his fate. That which might have been humiliation, or discouragement, became like the temper of the sword, it made him stonger, yet more flexible. The torture of human nature, trials he bore and slavery to his cause, all set him in motion to become something much more than a man He was now a knight, like the forged sword.
In the land of uncertainty, the young squire was in need of something good with which to fight his battles. He only knew not what. He was ridiculed for his desire, and his lack of skill and foresight. Some would call him naive and weak. Though that which was good, maliable in his heart and soul made him more powerful than any one knew. He longed to be as brave and courageous as the handsome Knights he saw proceeding onto thier perilous journeys, in search of truth, and what was right, and the boy was drawn to that life like a steed to a refreshing stream.
In the beginning, It was not much more than a hardened material, all but maliable in most every way. It was metal, steel, ferrous, but not strong or worthy of anything positive, until those clever enough took thier knowlege of many years, trials, failures and gained experience to thrust it into the hellish fires to concentrate this otherwise useless form. From there it was poured into molds, templates of what a good weapon might be. It was still not strong enough to fight the battles that lay before it, more punishment must lay ahead for this tool of righteousness. It must be strong, and rigid, but not brittle,... elastic and tolerant of the clash of other torments yet not break. It was not ready. Before the sword could find itself capable in battles, in defending truth, and the unmistakable duty that lay ahead, it must continue its rigorous punishment, relentless pounding and drudgery must be inserted into the metal, and with each pounding, it became stronger. The hellish fires from which It came, would not be enough as well. It must undertake more fire, among infernal chambers, bellowing the toxic product which among no thing could survive; but the sword. The sword enveloped again and again among the fires and brimstone, plunged into cold water as if a tortured captive, taken out and beaten again and again, as if the slave in a barbaric quary. It as if the punishment that no man could endure should it countiued, untill if as by some finnal cerimony the wet stone grinds the once rough object into a perfect blade.
Out of the dismal trenches and dank caves comes something beautiful. Strong, but flexible, powerful and relentless, yet true and righteous in the hands of noble man. From the depths of the earth it was dark, yet after the trial it has become irridescent, a brilliant weapon. Fit for the battles, ready to win what it has been meant to win.
So did the squire go through similar trials on his path to the sword. Humiliation from his inexperience, eventually faded away to triump in his inestimable skills. He sought on amid great dangers and struggles to assume his desires and his fate. That which might have been humiliation, or discouragement, became like the temper of the sword, it made him stonger, yet more flexible. The torture of human nature, trials he bore and slavery to his cause, all set him in motion to become something much more than a man He was now a knight, like the forged sword.
posted by Steve at 9:39 AM
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