"I really ought to have more of an edge," the knife argued. "You should put me in the fire again, hone me, make sure I'll do well for the King's table."

"The last time I tried doing that, you screamed. Said you didn't want to lose yourself, that you couldn't wait to be back and whole again," Biflindi argued, wiping the sweat off his brow. The knife muttered a cure in Dwarvish. Apparently it had been listening to its maker very well. The thick black beard concealed Biflindi's grin, as bright as the heart of his forge. Like all of his creations, he was proud of the knife. It was well weighted, the serrations evenly spaced, the curve just enough to make the glide through meat seamless. That this one spoke aloud rather than hummed (as all his creations did) in his mind was of no importance too the dwarf.

"Maker, please," the knife began. The dwarf crossed his arms over his chest, arcing a single brow, waiting to hear something the knife had argued numerous times since the knife's creation. "I know you are happy with me. I only wish to be the best knife I can be."

"You already are," Biflindi half-sighed. "None of your sisters or brothers have a voice as you do."

"They are sharper. They are keener. They are more likely to be used at feasts," the knife protested.

"That they may be," the Dwarf agreed, picking up the knife, calloused palm cradling it with a master's care and concern. "None of them though will be able to tell stories of my forge, of my work. None of them will remember what it is to be held by my hand, and none of them will be shown by king after king as an example of our family."

"Maker," the knife started, swallowed (as only something without lungs could), exhaled, steel cool air against the dwarf's still smoldering skin, "Father, are we really your children?"

"Aye, any smith who says otherwise is a liar. All things we make are dear to us, part of us, a family of the heart."

"Then I will trust you, Father."