Epilogue: An Elven Village in the Forest

There is one legend about this forest.

In our village, there is a mithril sword we consider sacred, our protective deity. The sword is stronger and many times more beautiful than any other.

A long time ago, when we elves lived in a different village in a different forest, a blacksmith breathed new life into this sacred sword. Reborn, it would later save the village from several disasters.

It was as if the sword had taken on the very soul of the blacksmith, a man who could be called the Keeper of Time.

This legend recounts the sword’s rebirth.

“A long, long time ago, our ancestors lived in a different forest,” a mother told her child.

This was a scene that could be happening in any home, in any place, a scene unchanged since time immemorial. But this moment took place in a village nestled deep in the forest. The mother and child both had the distinctive pointed ears of elves.

Perhaps due to the magic they absorbed, elves lived long lives. Their “long, long time ago” was set further back in history than a normal human could imagine, no less than two thousand years.

“And so, with the sacred sword broken, the villagers worried over what to do. After much discussion, they sent a woman to visit the blacksmith,” the mother said.

“Master Eizo?” the child asked.

She smiled. “Yes, exactly.” The elven mother had never met the blacksmith, but her grandmother apparently had.

Her grandmother had likened him to the sunlight filtered through tree leaves on a bright summer day: intense but kind. Could it have been true? The mother thought it might be. Whenever she visited the chapel where the sword was enshrined and saw the blade that had been restored by Eizo’s hands, she always sensed a gentleness within the metal’s cold exterior.

Eizo’s physical appearance was a mystery. There were no sculptures or even portraits bearing his likeness, not because they’d been lost in history, but because the man himself had refused to sit for them.

The child’s eyes sparkled while listening to the tale of Eizo. “When I grow up, I’m going to be just like him!”

“Oh, are you? You’ll have to study hard then,” the mother teased. “The elders say that he was a wise man.”

“Awww,” the child groaned.

The mother stroked her child’s hair.

From outside, someone called the child’s name. The mother nodded permission, and the child dashed out of the house.

From within the chapel, the sacred mithril sword watched over the village. It glowed with reflected light, warmly, as if it were smiling.