Journey to the Unknown Destiny

A young man, observing the world around him, who had just recently discovered a true gift for making weapons by hand. He knew he had a talent that was rare and could not be matched. There was something about the combination of iron and fire, with the right knowledge and practice, that was his secret. But the world itself seemed to be of no use for such wonders as he made. Where there were swords, axes, or spears, he could craft masterpieces that would be used once in battle and then languish useless in a dungeon. No, there were no people who knew what his work was worth.

But there were stories. There were tales of heroes who fought battles so great that they changed the whole course of history. His mind wondered to such men as Hercules or Achilles, and he wondered if those men might have wielded his creations. It's very possible they did, but in the end their stories died with them. The weapons they carried on mighty shoulders were forgotten in the sands of time while the men themselves became great myths. Even still, what good was it? Who cared if a hero won or lost? The only thing good about a hero is that sometimes one emerges when everyone needs them most; but with no one to tell their story after they left this world, who could say if any of them had ever lived at all?

The smith tried to imagine himself as such a hero and found himself dreaming of defeating some evil monster for the safety of his people. But even as he thought of such things, he knew it wasn't true. He didn't live in a village or town ripe for an attack from some villainous horde; he lived alone in a forest full of bears and wolves where only hunters came during their travels through the area. His life was full of work; working hard to make things no one wanted except him and his family - which was his wife and two children - and finding solace in the stars at night where he pretended to travel far away places that he had never been before. So this fantasy was just a dream, nothing more than something pleasant to think about while working by candlelight on his forge-cave floor late into the night.

He would ponder these things while staring at one particular weapon; it was his favorite piece so far, though it wasn't quite finished yet either. It was a spear whose shaft had been carved from oak trees found deep within the forest; its tip was made from a metal forged by himself alone that gave it strength far beyond anything any other metal could offer. The metal itself possessed many properties that allowed it to be an excellent material for sword blades and spearpoints alike: a combination of strength with flexibility at lower heats that allowed for sharpening or bending without breaking or losing its exceptional edge. There were other metals out there with similar qualities - steel being one such example - but none compared to this secret alloy that he discovered by accident long ago.

He sharpened the point against stone until it gleamed like moonlight reflecting off water then left it sitting next to his anvil to look upon later as he rested from his labor for the day. Then, as always after finishing up work for the evening, he sat under his favorite tree in front of his house where he tended to lounge while watching stars and thinking before retiring to bed with his family each night. Only now did he realize how tired he felt after many long days with little rest: both arms ached from hours spent swinging hammer against anvil while legs burned with fatigue from standing all day on uneven ground with nothing but rough boots to protect them from injury against rocks and branches beneath him. He looked up into tree branches above him and saw stars shining brightly through leaves while also seeing shadows dancing among them: silhouettes cast by moonlight filtering through branches above him as clouds drifted across its face like wispy ghosts themselves dancing on wind swept currents high above him moving faster than any normal man could hope to move on earth below him.