The Lost Heirloom

In the dimly lit workshop of the blacksmith's family, I, a cherished pendant bearing the insignia of generations past, felt the warmth of hands that had cradled me for centuries. Little did I know that the comforting glow of the forge and the rhythmic echoes of hammer strikes would soon be replaced by the cold, unfamiliar chill of separation.

Swiftly approaching was my master's son's twelfth birthday, and as had happened countless times before, I found myself bestowed upon him that very evening as a gift, accompanied by a commitment to attentive regard and care.

It had always struck me as peculiar that I should be entrusted to one so young, yet this time, uncertainty lingered; the boy, spirited and wild, raised doubts in my timeless existence.

Milo’s small feet swiftly navigated the uneven terrain as he dashed and darted through the narrow cobblestone streets, shoving past shouting vendors and bustling clusters of people to his father’s blacksmith shop. He called out to his father with a mixture of eagerness and urgency, finally reaching the blacksmith’s ears. The man, a towering figure, turned to face his son, his soft brown eyes settling upon the boy.

“Woah ho ho! Easy there, my boy, what’s all the fuss about?”

“Surely you must know there’s a grand tournament right outside of town tonight Father! There will be gallant knights in shining armor and jousting and everything! Oh please Father, you must let me go! I promise I'll be super careful. I just have to go!” Milo begged.

The father regarded his son with a mixture of amusement and pride, his gentle smile revealing the warmth in his heart. "Alright, Milo, you've got me convinced. It sounds like quite the adventure. But mind you, stay close and listen well. Off you go, son. Make the most of it, and remember, I'll be expecting tales of valor when you return."

And off we went, running through the crowded streets once more as the howling cheers and clinking of steel against steel grew louder with each step until, at last, we made it.

Over the past two weeks in my new master’s possession, Milo had developed the habit of running his slender fingers along the intricate twists of my design, both near the edges and in the center where two hammers crossed over a flame. He had done so, as he settled atop an oak tree branch for the perfect view just as two knights clashed into each other with their jousting poles, the smaller of the two crashing to the ground with a loud thud.

“Woohoooo!” Milo chanted, throwing his arms into the air with roaring amusement. I had seen dozens of fights before and found little interest in the charging and clashing of it. As the spectacle came to an end, the boy gracefully began to descend from the oak tree, his heart still racing with excitement from everything he had just witnessed. Unknown to Milo, with every agile movement downward, I began to slip out of my home across my master’s neck until finally, I slipped away buried in the foliage below.

Lost among the verdant shadows of the forest floor, I embarked on a journey of solitude, silently witnessing the passage of time. Seasons came and went, whispers of tales echoing through the woodland groves, as I slowly forgot the sound of my master’s voice and wondered if he had even noticed my absence or wondered where I was, until one fateful day, a gentle hand plucked me from obscurity.

Years had passed, yet Milo, now a man, stumbled upon me once more, nestled within the mossy embrace of the ancient oak tree. I watched as my master’s eyes of curiosity and wonder came alight with recognition at the twists of my design. Smiling, and giving me a rub with his shirt, Milo lifted me onto his neck to my place, nestled close to his heart once more, where I belonged. As he walked home, his hand stretched up to me and ran his big and calloused hands over me instinctively as he did when he was a boy. And that’s how I found myself back where I belonged, as his steadfast companion, now given more attentive regard and care than any master before.