Elves lived for a very long time. Koriat was not the first of his kind to think it was too long, but he’d also accepted it as fact a very long ago. As he fondly turned his first husband’s wedding ring between calloused fingers, a little smile gracing his face, memories of a wedding that had happened longer than a human’s lifespan ago flickered through his mind. That had been a wonderful day, hadn’t it? Dear Robertus… Koriat could still picture his handsome groom’s wide smile, the red paint on his eyelids, the golden glint of the ring against his dark skin. The mere thought of it still brought back a moment of fond yearning, threaded as it always was with the grief that proved the love they’d had.
A single kiss was pressed against its metal before Koriat let it go.
It was the first ring of many on the long chain he kept hanging on a hook by his bed, removed only to wear for special occasion or, as was the case today, to make a new addition. There was no other wedding ring amongst them yet (though Koriat did not discount the chance of it happening), but Robertus’s ring had been the inspiration for the rest. He’d recalled his own skill, how he’d made their promise rings himself, how he’d spliced them and blended them into two new rings for the actual marriage, how he’d made them so beautifully personal. What better for a smith like himself to do? Jewelery was far from his specialty but for love he’d invested time and effort into learning, and the results were… not perfect, but Robertus had loved them. And after the funeral decades later, the ring had become the embodiment of a memory.
And so it had came to be that he’d started to memorialize every loved one he ever had with a ring once they passed (or, more rarely, when it was certain they would never meet again). Not just lovers. Family. Friends. Every single person he’d held close to his heart would get one, made to embody them in some way, their name engraved in common as well as their first language if they had a different one. Koriat was, after all, a smith and cleric of the forge. A man of Gond, talented at the anvil and shaped in flame. He was born to make wonders, to work metal, and he was more than good at it. So this kind of record, though not written, was for him more powerful than what he could have made with words. Every twist of metal, every chosen stone, every bit of engraving and shaping, in every part of the process? He was honouring a beloved soul.
The last one he’d made before now had been for a friend. Ffion, who had worked in Sharess’ Caress as the ‘Librarian.’ A severe and seductive persona for a wonderful woman who he’d shared countless drinks and laughs with. Her band was golden, studded with three square-cut topaz gems held within delicate filigree. The one he placed next to it, while whispering a quiet prayer to himself, had only the gold in common. It was more elaborate in general, patterned across three-quarters and studded with multiple shaped rose quartz and tiny little emeralds.
“I hope you’d approve, Ezrael.” Koriat hummed with satisfaction, fixing the clasp of the chain and holding it up. “You might have gotten my prettiest ring yet.”
Tiny as they were the emeralds seemed to catch the light, obvious even at the end of the whole line of beautiful creations. Typical, huh, Ez trying to steal the show. Koriat allowed himself the laugh, allowed himself the tears, as he hung his chain back on the wall.
He did not know if he would ever reunite with Ezrael Deschain or any other soul memorialized in his rings, but the blacksmith hoped it would be so more dearly than he could ever express. Maybe one day the gods would relax the rules and they could visit across afterlives… but in the meantime, so long as he continued to live, Koriat would thread his creations onto chains and remember each and every love that flickered briefly into his life.