Set in Stone

The Templar’s grey eyes were still; very still, and shimmering with red light. The forge in front of him was stoked with artificial breath; visible in the delight of the dancing flames. And piercing the fiery scene was an ugly block of silver steel. Thin plates of metal which were heated, then hammered, heated, then hammered, heated, then hammered…

The process was one fascinating to the Templar, and was a keystone to his advancement in the Order.

The smith was in many ways similar; sole focus on the objective of the task. His heavily muscled arms were singed by the heat of the forge, and his calloused hands were grasping an iron hammer. Piercing clangs resounded in his ears as he mercilessly battered the steel. Then he turned, and with a hiss of steam, submerged the glowing steel in a large tub of water.

Both the Templar and smith could now see the sword taking shape.

The Templar’s knees ached; pressed upon with the weight of a heavy heart. The roughly hewn stones were cold, very cold; it was late into the night. The dark hours before battle he always spent in contemplation of the Lord. His hands were clasped tightly in prayer over the wooden altar, his lips moving in memorized motions.

The battle coming would be his last, if he won it.

The heavy rainfall outside mirrored the horizon of his mind; steady, sharp, and unforgiving. It would certainly set the mood for tomorrow. Regardless if they achieved victory, he was sure that it would feel bleak and fruitless. Stilling his mind again, he clenched his hands till the white of his knuckles were visible, and whispered ever more intensely.

Dawn was drawing near.

The Templar’s hands were stained with blood; both his and his enemy’s. How long he had been fighting for, he did not know, but his horse had been slain and he was now fighting hand to hand, struggling to keep his grasp on the already fleeting wisp of life that he had remaining. Another enemy ran towards him, and he gripped his sword tightly.

The blow that struck him was ill-aimed, but powerful.

He felt blinding shafts of pain race up his shoulder and breathe fire all around it, and his hand open involuntarily as he let out a gasp of pain. The sword that had been so gracefully crafted dropped onto the muddy ground, never to be held by it’s owner again.

Kneeling once more, the Lord received him with open arms.

The Templar’s pose was that of a conqueror, intimidating and inspiring. Hs features were painstakingly sculpted; scraped into shape with a plethora of carving instruments. His mane of hair flowed in the non-existent winds, and his eyes stared into the distance.

Inspiring future generations.

Resolutely and with a cautious grace, the sculptor added the finishing touches, and stepped away. The effigy would only ever be a pale imitation of reality, but it was enough to carry on his legacy for many years to come.

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies.” – Williams Penn

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