Forged in Fire: Finding Strength in Struggle and Staying True Through Life’s Battles

Battle after battle that sword endures, the clashing of steel of sword, board and armour. Kill after kill she tears through flesh and bone but still, she stays true, never bends, never breaks, and lays loyalty at the side of her master, when holstered, tamed yet just as deadly. 

When the master returns home his blade is hung in a chamber or perhaps rested on a stand, his blade gets a brief bout of “this is my sword! Treat her well” Or Perhaps the master cleans his blade with care. 

she is given exactly what she needs and how she needs it and is shown love care and attention.  Before being laid to the side to rest, to be reached for once again in the time of her masters need. 

Or perhaps she’s tossed aside and forgotten, never guarded, protected, never fought for only with and so she gets passed from wielder to wielder, picked up and thrown down tossed about nothing more than a tool or a vanity symbol. A sentiment as cold as the steel she bears herself. 

So here’s one that represents the strength of her steel and why she sheens and shines. When she was forged and crafted, her maker didn’t know exactly what her journey would be and where it would take her. However she was forged not only with steel, but with the heart and soul of her maker and his spirit is in that blade, and he trusts in her no matter what bestows her, for she will withstand. 

She’s stunning and strong able to kill, to maim, to sheen and to shine, treat her well, play with her a little but be careful or she’ll end your life. She is not to be feared but respected, she is true to herself and no one else, for those who try to rule by her may just as easily die by her, and those who gamble with her may just as easily lose her. She is loyal only to those who are loyal and stay true to her. 

Staying straight and true no matter what’s thrown at her. She may bend but bent swords can be straightened. 

Until one day, when the battles of her master are won and lost, she is given a new coat of polish and she’s displayed proudly. With the dents and scrapes of the battles before, not hidden or buffed out,  no these scars and scrapes and imperfections are pointed out to all those who will listen, for each one told a tale, tales of the wins, the losses, the near misses. 

The places she was laid witnessing the nights of, goodnight kisses, the please don’t do this for the misses, the promise of at least say you’ll miss us.  

And as her memory lasts forever, it reminds me of her master, when their kids say “And this is my father who held her”