The Thousandth Sword was forged by the Thousand Sword Smith, last of the blades that would bear Numbers of the True Language upon them. With its completion, there was no more need for the Thousand Sword Smith, and so that tale came to an end. This… is how it concluded.
Light shone from the Smith’s body at the completion of the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth and we were all gone, disappeared from the forge at which the final Swords of the Smith had been forged. Caught within the intensity of the power that was arriving, we four – Fearless, Caster, Marked and myself – would serve as witnesses to the forging of the final Sword. To the ultimate choice of the Thousand Sword Smith.
We could see it, in that realm where sense was displaced by magic, where our visions were not of any form that humans should bear. The Thousandth Number was there, with the Thousand Sword Smith, asking for its form. Asking that he give his own. Providing the final housing for its will.
At that time, the Sword could have been forged in an instant. The magic that had been steadily warping the Smith, all it would take was a Number and it would take form, become the soul of a Sword. Around the Smith it would wrap, through him it would flow, and he and it would become one. One being made Sword, another like me.
In truth, this being was to be far more than I ever would have been. I had been a snap decision, a powerful, decisive, yet instantaneous forging. The powers that matured within me thanks to the Venerable Nature, they helped me become what I am today, but compared to some of the other works of the Smith I was nothing special. It was my human side that made me so much more. That makes me so much more.
For the Smith though, it was different. Since the forging of the first Sword that preparation had begun. His body had also supported a Venerable Nature, his soul had been exposed to Number after Number, witnessed far more Words than any one being should in their lifetime. How easily had it become for him to manipulate divine magic at the end? It was solely, looking back, his own flesh that held him back.
If you become a Sword, the Number told him, you will transfigure. Take the Divine Word into your body and remake yourself through it, as a Divine Vessel. You hold the means to do this. You hold the ability to become this. To become the Thousandth Sword, you need only forge yourself.
The Thousand Sword Smith, of towering power and will, reached a hand forth, grasped around the symbol of his efforts. The work he had given everything to, and one of the greatest prides of his life. This was his decision.
In his hands, a blade of Proud Steel, the alloy of his own creation. This is the bearer, the container of the Thousandth Will. It is my choice. He spoke that and commanded the Thousandth Number before him. Forge yourself.
The world returned around us, the magic that had consumed our minds dispersed. All that was left was the Smith, all that was in his hands was a Sword. One Number written across it, glowing with divine light. The Thousandth Sword was done. The Thousand Sword Smith… was done.
I hear its call now, see its light shimmering in my mind. It has already made it across the sea, is signalling for our return. Let us cross, return to that which was left behind, and reclaim what is ours. The will of the Thousand aids us still.
Yes, the Smith who lived years past that day, he would be proud of we, the bearers of his legacy.