Years ago I used to make swords. I made swords with other bladesmiths. It was a close knit group - one had to prove their dedication to earn entry. The reward was mentoring and access to splendid materials for sword making. One day, those bladesmiths exiled me from their forge, fearing I'd bring them dishonor.
Then, years later, they announced a change. All would be welcome in their forge to learn and use their unique ornaments and embellishments and to craft fresh blades from iron that sat dormant. Encouraged, I found others and opened a new forge, next to theirs, one that used the items they'd graciously offered to all.
The goal of making the swords was not revenge. I sought not to stab those who'd banished me, but to demonstrate my worth. For I had long practiced bladesmithing on my own, in the wilds, and found new techniques they did not have. I would combine these techniques with the untapped potential of the resources they offered freely
But as the forge was opened, they came, anger clouding their mind. As they marched, they stumbled, and fell upon the swords I'd made. They ruined themselves for no reason other than anger and rage, perpetuating a grudge that was now one-sided. Their blood lay on the ground before their forge, frightening away all they'd hoped would join them. The fires of their furnaces went dark.
And now only the one they'd banished remained.
Hate is a sword that cuts its wielder worst of all.
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