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The Halls of Mandos is pretty much what Curufin expected it to be.
Not from an architectural point of view, no. For those who came back from the Halls, writing down a detailed description of its furnishings wouldn’t be their first priority, and despite what most people would think, even he would have enough sympathy to not just go up to someone and ask.
That said, stray words and vague stories have given him a decent impression of how the Halls feel like.
Desolate.
Cold.
Dead (ha.)
Though, perhaps the lack of detailed descriptions is descriptive in itself, as aside from the tapestries, there’s hardly anything worth mentioning in the interior of the Doomsman's allegedly endless Hall. Allegedly.
Because apparently being dead does not exempt you from jail time.
No one can torture this out of Curufin (no one can ask the right questions, he made sure of that), but despite all that they’ve been through, he could still feel a hint of gratitude about their current predicament. They could’ve been separated from each other, they could’ve been forced to spend the rest of eternity in isolation, not knowing what has become of one another (the way they don't know about their father’s). It could have been solitary confinement. It could have been the Eternal Darkness, it could have-
It could have been a lot of things.
But he’s here, with five of his brothers and his son.
With Celebrimbor, whom he didn’t really let go ever since that day when they were reunited in the halls and crashed into each other's arms. With Caranthir, leaning against the wall adjacent to the bars of their little prison, eyes roving to the emptiness outside as if something will actually change. Maedhros, who’d sit quietly in a corner, head tilted back, eyes resting. Celegorm, limbs stretches, body sprawls on the floor, taking up a stupid amount of space. And the Ambarussa, who, as usual, is communicating in that peculiar way that all twins seem to be capable of: weird hand gestures here and there, a few eye squints until one of them (it’s Amras today) finally nods as they reach a conclusion.
Not ideal, and far, far from perfect.
But it’ll work.
He’ll make it work.
He always make it work.
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.
.
When Curufin was younger, sometimes, out of boredom, he’d imagine what life is like outside of the safety of Aman. What’s it like, if he was one of those who woke up by the shore of Helcar? To live in the lands unlit by the two trees, infested by danger, fear, desperation? What’s it like, to fight like his life depends on it? To witness the death of those you love, thinking that you’ll never see them again, that you have to spend the rest of eternity without them?
What if he was the one who fell?
What is life like, in death?
If Eru ever gives Curufin a chance to go back in time, he’d travel back to see his younger self, and tell him to save his imagination for other things because it’s boring as shit in here .
(That was a lie, if he had the power to undo time, he would have- would have-)
(Because there’s so many ways, so many possibilities, so many chances- )
Eyes close.
Breathe.
Curufin opens his eyes after a moment and isn’t surprised to find that Celegorm is watching him. His large body sprawls on the ground, using Curufin’s right thigh as a pillow.
It’s moments like this that Curufin can most clearly see the hunter in his brother’s eyes. That sharpness hidden behind the stilled gaze, quietly waiting, quietly watching. No sudden movements.
Impulsive? Yes. Trust his instinct more than logic? Absolutely.
But not stupid. Never stupid.
Curufin is painfully aware of how those predatory eyes are boring into him, deciphering each twitch of his brows and shifts of his eyes, and is quite possibly reading every single line of thoughts he’s having right now, always know a little more than he lets on.
He probably should tell him to cut it out. He probably would’ve done so, if this was back then, all the way back then. But if there’s one thing Middle Earth has taught him, it is that there are many other things that are more dangerous than the gentle concern in his brothers’ eyes, and plenty others that hurt more than a bruised ego.
Still, spending the rest of the foreseeable future staring lovingly (?) into Celegorm’s eyes is hardly near the top of his (sadly very meager) to do list. So-
“You hear it too?”
Oh?
The pair turns their eyes to their two youngest brothers and waits for them to continue whatever conversation that was-
The old Curufin would have cringe at his eager curiosity, the current Curufin would argue that literally what else is there to do?
-only to find out that the twins were talking to them, and fully expect them to understand the context and provide them with an answer.
“In case you forgot, ósanwe wasn’t exactly our family’s specialty,” Curufin said with an eyebrow raised.
“That noise,” were the only words that Amrod returned, but the oh my god get with the program is pretty much implied.
Ignoring the blatantly insinuated disrespect , Curufin strains his ears and listens. There’s the sound of breathing (much more quiet than usual, the others are probably listening in), the occasional rusting of clothing is completely absent.
And distantly, a faint, faint, thumping sound, so quiet that he nearly thought he just imagined it.
He frowns.
“You knew.” Amras said, his curious gaze meets Celegorm's faint smile.
Celegorm merely responds with a hum, laced with a vague sense of satisfaction. Quite the opposite of what Curufin is feeling right now, as someone who absolutely despises being in the dark. Amras soon takes pity on him.
“We started noticing that thumping sound a just a while ago, but neither of us were sure what it was, so we wanted to wait a little before telling you all.” After a few seconds of silence, he continued, “we also wanted to see how long it would take for you guys to notice it too.”
“I thought you and Celegorm were talking about it.”
Not many have the audacity to call eye contact “talking”.
(That reminds him about a paper he read once, that was written by master Rúmil. It was about the difference between information relay amongst- )
“So when did you notice it?” Amras asks Celegorm and sends Curufin’s thoughts back to the present. That is a fair question, he doesn’t doubt that out of everyone present, his elder brother has the best hearing, by virtue of being blessed at birth and through centuries of honing his hunting skills.
Against his wish though, Celegorm simply made a small hum which could literally mean anything between “Tis but days ago” to “bruh it’s been there for centuries honestly I’m so disappointed u bakas rn.”
While the lack of a clear time frame frustrates Curufin, he must admit that it probably really is the best that he could give them. The passage of time becomes a blur when the stars, the tree leaves, the weather, the everything is unreachable from here in the Halls. It’s not like they have any other method of timekeeping other than that sand hourglass Celebrimbor whipped out from who knows where that one time.
The conversation dies down just after a few more exchanges since no one has any actual substance to present. Everybody is back to brooding about their respective problems, Curufin included.
The past and present blurs together again.
.
.
.
Being dead pushes exercising far down in their list of priority, not having a physical body simply cuts down one less thing to worry about. With that being said, Curufin still catches himself noting the physical routines of his cellmates. To his displeasure, Celebrimbor is at the bottom of the ranking right now, as his daily activities consist of, well, nothing , besides occasionally snuggling into Curufin’s left, or rarer, sticking to Celegorm instead.
He knows that it’s an irrational thing to be upset about, not only because they don’t even have a body, but also because neither he nor his brothers are any better during their early days here, when air was even more stagnant and morale was miraculously even lower.
With that being said, he must give Caranthir credit for his ability to still be relatively active compared to the rest of them.
Curufin is mildly surprised that the first place position doesn’t belong to Celegorm, though it takes little to rationalize it. While it’s true that their third eldest was never one to linger long in the same place, he’s not keen on senseless pacing either. To him, a leisure stroll in the woods is very different from prowling in a cage.
Caranthir’s opinion seems to differ.
Ever since Curufin first gained cognizance, whenever he thinks about his older brother, the first image that’d enter his mind would be that pointless, endless pacing. He could walk around in circles like that for hours and hours on end.
Curufin sometimes wonders what Caranthir is thinking so hard about, to keep walking and walking as if each step is worth thousands in gold.
At least, for now, he’d decided to show mercy to the rest of them and stopped the dizzying cell-patrol and assume his usual position: leaning on the steel bars, head craning to see either out to the hallway in front of them as doing for the thousandth time would somehow manifest a change.
Apparently it did, because for the first time in forever, he reported back something.
“It’s louder.”
Said report is completely unrelated to what he was doing, but still, something worth mentioning.
Curufin lets his ears focus on it again, and just as Caranthir said, that thumping (rumbling? Knocking?) sound is indeed a tad bit louder. Just enough to cross the threshold of am-I-imagining-it into the oh-good-I’m-not-hallucinating zone. This has interesting implications, either whoever’s causing it is getting rowdier, or that they’re slowly getting closer.
Curufin found himself very intrigued, and it seems like he’s not alone.
“Perhaps they’re having some sort of celebration.” Celebrimbor commented absentmindedly.
Curufin thinks he heard a small murmur of “doubt so” from Maedhros, and saw that the ever present haze that always cloud his eyes seems to thin out a little, a brief moment of respite from whatever nightmare he was drowning in.
Of course, it’s not fair to attribute this change solely to their new little discovery, some credit must be given to the eldest himself. Curufin would only need to blink for the images of those first days to come back.
(It was the one time where Caranthir’s constant watch to the outside of their cell paid off.
“I hear footsteps,” he said.
Louder and louder, slowly, they were approaching.
By the time the fiery locks were within sight, they had all stood up, tense, anticipating.
The Maia told them to back away from the bars, then they will let Maedhros in.
They backed up, Maedhros entered, the Maia left.
They crowded him, joy and anguish fused, for once (but not for all) chased away their suffocating misery.
Though, it was strange, how unmoving their eldest was.
Didn’t talk, smile, cry, nor move, as still as their mother’s statue.
But in his eyes, the same darkness lingered, like the ones that haunted the stormy gaze, on that first night, when he was rescued from the Enemy’s grasp.
And Curufin thought to himself,
“Welp. Here we go again.”)
He turned his eyes to Maedhros. Maedhros whose hands are moving, absentmindedly brushing through Celegorm’s hair, eyes looking for any tangles to ease away. Voice tiredly chastises Caranthir for something rude he just said. Yet a soft smile still can’t be hidden away.
A long journey indeed.
But progress is visible, so if nothing else, at the very least, they have that. Pointless worries can be saved for later
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.
.
“Perhaps it’s just raining outside.” Celebrimbor mutters.
Unless the Halls are secretly located in Middle Earth, “it’s just raining” is such an outrageous sentence.
The thought had actually crossed Curufin’s head, but was quickly dismissed. For Celegorm, it might be possible, but to any normal elf, being able to hear the sound of rain is nigh impossible if these stone walls are as thick as they appear to be. Especially if it’s the dainty Aman rain.
It always feels wrong to use the word “rain” to refer to both the rain in Aman and the one in Middle Earth.
The difference is stark, in the intensity, origin and even the mechanics behind.
Rain in the Blessed Realm is a controlled thing, each decade has a set amount of times where it’ll rain, which varies for each region. The rain droplets were… kind. Gentle, faint, not unlike a fair illusion. It falls silently, barely making any sound when they hit the ground. Fades into soft mist the moment it hits your skin.
(His wife loved it, she thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in Aman. She loved how they look like shiny gemstones that fall down from the sky, leaking from fluffy, white clouds.
That’s what he thought about when he made their wedding bands
They got married on a rainy day.)
Middle Earth managed to slaughter any goodwill he harbored towards rain.
It would have fascinated him, if they didn’t have to march, fight and kill during it. That was one of the main forces to shatter any illusion he still had left that their journey to reclaim the Silmaril would be an easy one. It got better after they trekked deeper into the land, but during their first few days of arriving to the shores, when they stopped to reorganize their troops, bad luck struck.
The first thing he noticed was the sky darkening. He was still getting used to the new cycle of Sun - Moon, but even then, he could tell that something was not quite right. Curufin didn’t remember seeing the sunset and that’s not something easy to miss. And the second thing were the clouds, the dark clouds. As gloomy and as ominous as the smoke clouds from the remnants of their ships.
Then a drop of rain hits his nose. He flinched.
The water was cold.
It only took minutes before the wrath of nature came pouring down on them. They were lucky enough to have already set up most tents beforehand because the rain was, strangely enough, uncomfortable, obnoxiously loud, and it hurts . Because apparently, sometimes, raindrops fall too close to each other, so they merge into bigger drops, making it fall harder and hit harder.
The rain lasted hours at most, but it felt like years of waiting. Wait for what, he wasn’t sure back then. For it to end? Or for the screeching wind will finally have enough and blow them all away?
In the end, there weren't many losses other than a cart of food supplies that got thoroughly drenched.
He remembered rushing to Celebrimbor after that to check on him, frightful that their Doom might’ve already struck. Only to find the little fool thoroughly soaked, water still dripping down from his hair, looking just as dorky as ever.
At least the “dark cloud means rain” lesson was hammered into their heads quickly.
So yes, Curufin firmly believes that the sweet mist-droplet of the Blessed Lands could never come close to being as audible as the soft tapping they’ve been listening to for a while now. Or perhaps they even need one of those ice rains, or hail as the secondborn has called it, for it to make such distinct sounds.
But regardless of the logistics, “Halls of Mandos is actually located in Middle Earth and the one that is currently in Valinor is a bait for Feanor” won’t be the conspiracy theory that he’ll bet his life on.
He tells Celebrimbor so.
It took a few seconds, but his son huffs out a soft breath, and speaks in that same even, quiet tone he always used ever since the day they met again in this cell, “Perhaps we’re in Lady Yavanna’s rain-garden.”
Curufin doesn’t comment on how strangely distracted Celebrimbor seems to be, and thinks about the possibility. Still just as far fetched… yet a little more plausible.
Lady Yavanna’s gardens are just as great and grand as the stories told, fair roses and pretty flowers praised, glazed over in songs and poems (he wishes Maglor was here, who else could he direct this side eyes to ). Most of her gardens are open for visitors, from the herb garden to the strange, burning hot, sandy one with weirdly-shaped prickly greens.
There are few in particular though, where unregistered entries are prohibited for “safety reasons”. The rain-garden was an interesting one, and if what he heard about it is true, “garden” would not be a suitable word to describe it.
He never had enough interest nor time to request permission for a quick expedition through it, but Celegorm and Celebrimbor had.
Apparently, Orome wanted a change in scenery, so he got Celegorm and his hunting party to the secluded, oh so mysterious rain-garden. If you check the location of every garden that belongs to Lady Yavanna, you’d find that all of them are never too far away from each other. The only exception is the rain garden, tucked far away from major elven cities, where few ever cross.
Word of mouth has it that it was a (harebrained) experiment gone so wrong yet so right at the same time, that has ended up in this absolute mess. Curufin never takes much stock in gossip, yet looking at the sheer scale of that damn forest , he must concede that perhaps, the rumors do have a solid base.
The trip lasted a month, but Celegorm only actually spent a third of the time hunting, because it just wouldn’t stop raining. According to the tagalong, Celebrimbor, it rained every hour , everyday during that time they spent there. And the Maia overseeing their stay told them that it could even rain for months at a time.
“It was so noisy that we could barely sleep!” His son had exclaimed with a little too much enthusiasm. And even more when he showed sketches of the colorful birds he saw, which looked like those bad drawings with messy colors Celebrimbor used to make back when he was a child (looking at that one with a stupidly big bill is making him question just how much he understands about his son and his artistic skills). But since Celegorm was there to corroborate the claim, Curufin refrained from making any comments about the credibility of the sketches.
But apparently doubt was still visible in his eyes, because then Celegorm left the room and came back with a bird so colorful that it looked like a child’s drawing came to life. As if that wasn’t enough, his son happily looked towards it and went, “say hi to my father!”
And the bird happily said back “Hi there!”
The bird fucking talked to him.
So that was how his first meeting with Palarran the parrot went.
He hadn’t seen Palarran in a long, long time, he misses her.
He hadn’t seen Celebrimbor being so excited over something like that for a long time too.
He also misses it.
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The sound gets a little louder, and less like rain.
It sounds more like knocking. Like hammer on chisel. Like chisel on stone.
So similar to (yet not quite) like back in Aman, him quietly reading, with the sound of his mom working in the studio, sound echoing through the house.
He was young, still at that age where he can’t go too far from either of his parents without being upset, so it was not strange to see him cuddled up with a picture book on the lounge near her studio instead of in his own room.
Sometimes, he’d get bored of spending time with himself and would switch to bothering her instead.
“What are you making?” He’d ask.
The answers are never really the same.
Someone commissioned me for a bust of their wife. This is a nobleman in Alqualonde. These are flowers to add onto another work. These are characters from a folklore that was once popular in Cuivienen. You actually met this person before, remember?
There was one occasion that stood out.
“Did someone commissioned you to make a statue of me?” He asked. He wasn’t self centered enough to immediately assume that any block of stone that vaguely resemble a child was him, but Nerdanel’s much more occasional glances towards him and her mischievous smile did not go unnoticed.
She laughed.
No, I’m just doing this because I wanted to.
“Why?”
Because I love you and want to keep seeing you like this.
“But why? I’m not going anywhere.”
But you’ll be all grown up eventually, and I just can’t stand never seeing those baby cheeks again!
Curufin must admit that her reasoning is rather sound, adults like children, and he is objectively a very cute one.
The finished product is just as impressive as any of her other works. An exact duplicate of himself, face resting on his right palm, hunching forward in that pose that his mom always nagged him about (and damn it she was right, his posture is horrid ) . It’s…odd, no mirrors he had ever laid his eyes on could ever let him see himself in like this. No matter how clear the image is, it’s impossible to think about it as anything else other than just a reflection. And yet, looking at this colorless, stone carved version of him, it almost feels as if that thing which he watched his mother pour her passion into, was the real Curufin.
He never forgot about the statue, he just…doesn’t really think about it anymore.
He didn’t think about it for a long time.
Not until his mother has left.
Not until he looked at that corner of her studio and all he saw was an empty bench and a small wooden table. It was gone.
His mother has moved many of her work with her. That project that she was still working on, the models that she left on the shelves as decoration, even that story book he left there centuries ago so that the “other him” wouldn’t get bored.
(He doesn’t know how he’d feel if she had left it behind.
He doesn’t want to find out.)
It almost felt like a piece of him had been taken away.
(Curufin does not doubt that she’ll take good care of it.)
.
.
.
Okay it’s not funny anymore.
They’ve shared many crackpot theories over the origin of the knocking sound, most made in jest. Even some more serious discussions with Caranthir don't serve much more purpose than to function as a pastime activity, both parties know not to take the conversation too seriously.
Fooling around doesn’t seem very appropriate anymore. The sounds are much louder compared to the beginning. Clearer, more… visible, in a way which suggests that whatever it is that’s causing the noises, it’s coming closer.
A reasonable hypothesis to make, and Curufin is aware that he’s not alone in his belief.
Above the stagnant air of their little cell, there layers a thin blanket of tension. An amount of vigilance they have parted ways with when they stepped into the Halls has decided to return.
Celegorm and the Ambarussa as silent as they would have on their hunts, waiting for the right moment to- pounce? Run? Fight?
(Surely it would be too much for the Hall of Mandos to have hidden dangers too?)
Joined with them is Caranthir, who sits a small distance away from Celegorm, the ever present scowl grew much more intense.
(Curufin thinks he sees a hint of confusion in them too.)
Maedhros has his back pressed against the farthest wall of their jail, as neutral as ever in his expression, yet in those eyes contains a level of clarity that has been missing for so, so long.
(He hates how he’s not in the right state of mind to appreciate that.)
Which is why he’s all the more concerned about the look in Celebrimbor’s eyes.
Curufin is aware that his son is still on his journey to heal, and that he, like the rest of his brothers, will have times where he’d be a little more…unwell, than usual.
As much as it pains Curufin to acknowledge it, he knows there are problems, there are nightmares that can not be chased away by another, no matter how great the desire to help of that other person is.
So he bites his tongue back.
He will help, when the help is actually wanted.
For now, Curufin turns back to the metal bars, and resumes his personal quest to find a weak spot on them.
.
.
.
It’s louder still.
Closer .
“It sounds…very familiar.” Caranthir said, brows drawn together.
It is. and that’s what has been making Curufin so itchy. Just so, very similar to the sound of their mother carving on marbles, but the irregular frequency is all off. Like standing right outside of a busy forge and hearing all of the ruckus inside, but the volume is too even to really be that.
What does it sound like?
It sounds like-
“Mining.” Celebrimbor said softly.
It took him a second to process that.
That honestly is their best guess so far.
Curufin turned to his son, and his mind halted at the look in his eyes…
And oh, the dots connected.
They tell stories sometimes, to distract themselves, to reminisce, to lighten up the mood. Clebrimbor joins in every once in a while.
There were brief stories about his life in Eregion. Certain topics were obviously danced around by everyone, but some stories…
Some are about loyalty, about friendship, about the hardworking dwarves of Khazad-dum. Stories about their festivals, their culture, their language. Stories about a stubborn dwarf named Narvi. Stories that soften the hard edges around Caranthir’s eyes and make even Maedhros blossom a faint smile.
He can finally see that faraway look for what they truly are.
It’s not the faraway of a man pushed so close to the limit that he’d look at death like a relief that he cannot reach.
Nor the faraway of a man slowly bleeding out, a man who knows that despite the eternity before him, he still won't have enough time, not even enough to drag his broken body forward, to die with his hand intertwined with his brother’s.
But,
Somehow even farther.
Farther than the stretch of water that separates Aman and Middle Earth.
Beyond darkness, beyond despair.
Far, into an unreachable place. Into the good memories that will never be experienced again. To the happiness, the joy that will no longer be felt until the end of Arda. To an unfinished story, of hidden glances and fleeting tenderness… a story with an ending that can no longer be written.
Curufin turns away, unable to look at his son anymore.
.
.
.
Sometimes Curufin finds himself doubting that Maglor is alive.
He refuses to believe that he can be so melodramatic without his elder brother’s houseless spirit possessing him.
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.
.
It’s definitely mining.
Celebrimbor’s speculation turns even more credible because they can, in fact, feel it. Whoever it is that is mining in the Halls of Mandos are getting so close that they can feel the vibration under their feet if they focus enough.
The sound is clearer if they throw away their dignity to press their ear to the ground. Caranthir and Maedhros mutual confirmation spared him the need to do it himself.
So, the problem:
1, Someone is digging through the stone of the Halls.
2, Some of them can still somewhat remember the layout of the immediate area surrounding their cell, and judging from the emptiness, everyone is positive that whoever this is, they are trying to get to them.
3, It’s not the Valar or any of their servants, who really can just come here and whisk them away.
Curufin doubts that anyone with enough conviction to mine their way through these stones for all this time would do it just to come and say hi.
There is naught to do but wait and be prepared for whatever is coming.
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.
.
It comes closer still.
Celegorm said he can hear muffled voices.
.
.
.
Closer still.
Close enough that no one felt comfortable sitting anymore.
.
.
.
Closer.
To the point that they can almost predict where these strange visitors will pop up from.
They stay away from that spot on the floor.
He never feels as safe to turn his back against the empty space behind their prison bars.
.
.
.
Close.
The stone looks like it would give in any second.
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.
.
Crack.
There’s a hole on the floor.
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.
.
Dwarves.
There are dwarves in the Hall of Mandos.
They dug a tunnel here (??) from the Halls of Aule (???????).
The company that’s about more than a dozen dwarves looks just about as confused and as curious as he feels right now, their eyes dashed around the room, brows pinched together as a sign of their disapproval of the brother’s living space (Same).
One of them is not like the other. One of them looks more- excited, desperate .
And then that dwarf dashes forward, straight into Celebrimbor’s arm.
(He’s not that alarmed, not really.
Not when his son is returning the hug like his very life depends on it.
Not when he can see his back shivering, and hear his near delirious chanting, a name repeated over and over in a shaky whisper.)
"Narvi"
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.
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Apparently Celebrimbor isn’t the only one they're looking for.
Also apparently, the other elf just has to be another redhead.
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Aule’s Hall is, unexpectedly yet not surprisingly, the polar opposite of Mandos’.
Their halls are decorated with intricate statues, weaving in with paintings depicting their history and their own glorious battles.
What little walls managed to peek through rows and rows of decorations are covered in carvings, the lines as bold as their warriors’ tattoos.
There’s always a fire, somewhere, whether it be from the warm hearths, from flickering candles or-
Or the busy forges.
But their duties have yet to be over (they actually have duties now ).
They are still waiting for Durin, their leader, to grant official permission to stay. Some of the dwarves are still giving them cautious looks. Their father is yet to be found. Maglor is still out there, somewhere, fate still remains unknown to them. His mother, his wife, still holding on in the Blessed Realm, waiting.
But-
But then he looks over, and sees that in Maedhros eyes, all of the bone deep exhaustion is gone, replaced by a pure, unmasked bewilderment.
Caranthir is on his knees, holding tight in his arms his own bundle of dwarves, some of them Curufin recognized as dwarven warriors and lords of old. Celegorm is hovering nearby, gaze assessing the fur coat of one of them. The twins somehow already shed all of their reservation away to be cooed over by some dwarrowdam in their thick dresses and impressive beards.
That redhead- Tauriel, if he heard it correctly- is off to a corner with one of the dwarves that was there when they broke them out of. Was it Kili or Fili?.
And there is Celebrimbor, attached to Narvi’s side, not even bothering to hide the bond between them, not from the dwarves, not from his father. (Which is fair, Curufin truly doesn’t think that he still has the strength in him to refuse his son anything ever again.)
(He doesn’t think he ever felt this much hope since the day he died.)
And then he looks down to the table that’s just a little too low to be comfortable.
An assortment of tools on the desk next to that, with hooks and claws that he’s not yet sure about the function.
The fire of the forge chimney seems to burn slightly hotter than what he would've preferred.
In his right hand, a blacksmith hammer with a handle that’s just a teensy bit too big and the balance just a bit off.
Not perfect, not yet.
But it will work.
He’ll make it work.
He always make it work.