C. P. Cabaniss Writing Project discussion
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August 2024 Writing
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Sweat drips from my forehead as the heat from the coals in the forge blasts me with its intensity. I frown when sweat runs into my eyes, obscuring my vision. I swipe the offending wetness away with the back of my hand as I refocus on the sword among the embers.
The metal is bright, pliable, and when I remove it to pound it with my hammer, sparks fly as the connection is made. It is beautiful, this tool of destruction. What happened to all the swords used in the battles of long ago? Our records spoke of the wars, the bloodshed, and my swords are perfected versions of those outlined in some of our scrolls. If the scrolls survived, then what happened to the swords?
I was young when the man in the Bone Wood first told me there would be war–younger than Calan was when he was informed. Sometimes I see that man, the one from the Bone Wood, without trying. His pale skin, the blue eyes, and red of his lips. If it wasn’t the same man that Calan saw, then all of those of the Bone Wood must be identical.
How many people are in the Bone Wood?
I have more questions in my mind than there are answers to satisfy them. Although I don’t let Calan know it, sometimes I wonder if we are doing the right thing. The swords are gone for a reason. The men are in the Bone Wood for a reason. Can they not come out? Who are they? How long have they been there? How long do they live? What will this war do for them?
The number of questions continues to rise and I take a deep breath as I study the sword. After Calan’s tests with the first one of this design, I’ve replicated the process as closely as possible. It is not the design of the scrolls, but something lighter, stronger.
Deadlier.
I fear what this war will do to our people. Already Calan and I are shunned. Even our own parents avoid us. But something about what the man from the Bone Wood said, and how he said it, felt inevitable.
If war is coming, I would rather be prepared and have a chance to defend myself than be slaughtered because I wasn’t willing to listen.
The sword glows a soft orange as I study it. My thoughts refuse to leave the one thought that has plagued them since Calan visited the Bone Wood.
What does it profit the messenger?