Fit For A King

The blade had been long in the making; two years had passed since the smith first gathered together the Damascus steel and enough coal to keep the forge burning bright. A painstaking job to be sure, but something he approached with respect and dedication. Sweat rolled down his soot-darkened face which he wiped away with the heel of his palm, revealing a jagged scar that ran from eye socket to jawbone. He held the sword aloft, as if in triumph, marvelling at its beauty and weight, and then carefully laid it down upon the wrought-iron anvil in the centre of the wooden smithy. Sure that this magnificent weapon was ready for the task ahead, the blacksmith wrapped the blade in some old woollen blankets and managed a wry smile. The King – his former ally and closest friend - was sure to appreciate the workmanship and artistry of the sword; he would marvel at the weapon that had been created for him alone - he would get to appreciate it up close and personal.