11.24

He finally let go of that axe. The smith who came to take it nearly lost a hand. The poor elf's face condensed into an unrecognizable scowl when he saw the blood-soaked haft and the worn, beaten starmetal. He has taken to carrying the shifting sword, but I can tell it's not doing the trick. I hope they bring him something to do, or he will die as surely as if he were stabbed.
--
He grows daily worse.
--
Today, it arrived. It is light roan, like the flank of a deer in the low sunlight of a darkening wood. The haft is long and straight but the grip is made for much smaller hands. He reaches out a trembling hand and takes the blade. Pulling out a hammer, he gently taps the haft free and tosses it aside.
We go running. We cross easy miles in the woods until he stops at a dead ash tree. He reaches out and rips a branch straight from the tree. The bark has been stripped from it by antlers and the surface scored again and again. He takes out a knife and scrapes off the end until it seems slim enough, and taps the head onto the new shaft. He grins at me and I grin back. Now, he takes the strip of leather from our first kill, so many hunts ago, and, with the skill of easy use, begins to wind it around the handle. He binds it by itself and it stands a finished work, shoddy but workable, unbeautiful but functional, completely him and completely us. He turns to me and I tilt back my head and howl. He roars with me. We are complete again. In the stillness of the woods, the leaves scraping against their trees, he whispers, and his voice is husky: this is the Stag, the one that runs with no reason but joy.
--
The other came today. He sheathed the Stag and greeted his old friend with two hands and a wary eye. He tapped the length of the haft to see it was sound, tasted the blade to see it was sharp, and swung it round his head to see it still sang. Its singing is near deafening, now, and it hums with the kind of malevolence that gets the heart beating and puts fear in the hearts of those who think they know death. It hums with the quiet anticipation of the hunt, waiting with explosive energy to break out and destroy. It hums like wind though tree tops or like ice in the cold, like a lake on a night that kills.
It feels like a kindred spirit, and we welcome it back. I can hear emotion deep in his voice and I can smell his sincerity. This one is the Fang, he says, the one that waits to strike.
--
Together, disparate. Two parts of a larger whole. We'll see who can stand against us now.