The Forge

 The forge was bellowing, brutal and cruel. Of course, this was a result of the bellows, without which the forge could not have been anything at all. But perhaps the bellows had done its job too well that day, for the heat pumped out in gusts, growing ever bigger, and let the iron spit.

    The ironworker — the blacksmith — was usually well accustomed to the workings of his forge. That day was quite different. That day, he was certain it was not his forge. It was so hot, it could only belong to itself. And it was fuming with a force that more than suggested anger. 

    The heat, having nowhere to go but out, singed the blacksmith's course brown beard.

    He frowned.     

    The forge needed more iron — more to soak up the unruly flames.

    And more iron still. 

    Until all his iron roasted in the swells of heat. 

    When the wealth of metal was heated through, the ironworker began his craft. He did not stop working until all the iron was formed. 

    The weapon was beautiful, cruel, deadly. The forge itself was spent, and died.

    When the forge was again lighted, it ate the weapon.

    Then it was itself again.

    The blacksmith scratched his beard, shook his head, and carried on with his work in a merrily burning forge.

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