Remade

A hot blast of air slipped between Thel 'Vadam's mandibles, rousing him from the near-sleep he'd allowed to steal so close. Lifting his hunched neck from its rest upon his arms, he looked up to see Goran lower the forge's shroud, returning its orange radiance to no more flicker than a candle dancing in the dark alcoves of the workshop's red, iron-rich rock walls. The forgemaster held a half-sphere of near-molten metal in his tongs, and brought it with more haste than Thel had often seen from the old Sangheili to a waiting trough, and submerged it with a furious hiss.

Thel inhaled, squeezing what oxygen he could from the smokey air into his twin hearts, and stood. The smith hardly noticed, until he spoke.

"Your scrawlings from the age Sangheili struck rock against rock held some use after all." he grumbled, neglecting the proper use of titles. Irreproachable skill as a swordsmith had left him spoiled for that—even kaidons bowed and scraped when they came to Goran for a blade, though as far as Thel knew, this had been the first time in living memory the smith had approached the kaidon. "Don't ask me why, but it worked."

Upturned, the half-sphere revealed a bar fixed inside its metal shell, freshly fused. The handle, united with the guard Thel had modeled after the designs uncovered in his pilgrimage to Nuusra's ancient temples, was whole again. Remade.

Even submerged, its dying glow pierced the steam like the brand Thel had endured in High Charity's last days. The Mark of Shame it inflicted still stung, as did the memory of its infliction. Made him feel unworthy to gaze upon this relic of an age of heroes, hidden from the eyes of even 'Vadam's kaidons in the vaults beneath their keep. The End of Night. It should never be made to bear even the reflection of such a mark.

Not for the first time, Thel reminded himself to reject that feeling. It, like the mark, was a falsehood, held over from a false Covenant. It could not be allowed to linger and taint future he envisioned for Sanghelios.

"I've not seen this metal's like before," Goran admitted, shaking his head. "Sheds heat so well the emitters need no other cooling. It's nearly—kaidon!"

Goran jumped as Thel reached under the water, and pulled the handle free of his tongs. The smith was correct; the metal had cooled unnaturally fast, though still warm enough to singe its runes into his leathery palm. Good. Thel thought, lifting it over his head. Let me bear new marks for this new age.

The old swordsmith looked as though he were about to berate the master of the Vadam State, but stopped short as Thel's fingers tightened, and the blade—the blade which had not lit in uncounted centuries—sprang to life. Twin half-oval panes of golden light appeared, and the shadows retreated further into the wall's crags.

"No... no legend of this blade speaks of its color being so... unusual," whispered the swordsmith, as rooted in place as Thel was.

After a moment, he found the wits to answer, "Because it is not the same blade."

Goran nodded, slowly. "Because its destiny was changed."

Just as mine has. Thel noted. He kept his eyes on the blade, resisting the urge to glance at Goran, fearing the change he'd brought to so storied a weapon might be a perversion. It wasn't difficult.

"Thank whatever gods there are for that." Goran commented, and shuffled away to set down the tongs. "To sit in some treasure horde is a fate for a weapon as unworthy as inglorious death for a warrior."