The not-immortal Blacksmith

- The Gun -

The revolver sat alone, almost forgotten under properly folded shirts, in the back of a dresser drawer. It was a relatively simple thing, made from cold hard steel and brass. It's cylinder's chambers packed with black powder and topped a .44 caliber ball made from an amalgam of silver, lead, and cold iron. The primer caps were on all six of the cylinder's nipples, and the hammer rested gently on one.

Stamped on the barrel were the words "Colt Army Model 1860", and on the bottom of the grip, in a stilted hand was scrawled "For Max, T". The words were all partially worn away from use, but still legible in the proper light. It's brother was tucked into the waistband of a blacksmith.

It's previous owner, a veteran of the American Civil War, was long gone from this world; having returned home after his job here was done; and he had left it and it's brother behind to give it's new owner a "leg up" on his competition.

It sat, and sat, and sat. If it was actually able to think, it would have thought things like "I'm lonely", or "I'm bored", or any of dozen things like that. But it couldn't think.

Well not really.

What it could do was "feel", and feel it did. It felt the loss of it's first owner whom it had been issued to almost immediately after production, an owner who had used and cared for it like an extension of his body. An owner that it had never failed. Not once.

It could feel it's brother when it was nearby, could feel the smith in it's brothers proximity. It felt them both this day as they came into the room they all shared. It felt the drawer slide open. It felt the smith's hand seek out it's warn and polished grip. It almost felt joy when it was pulled out into the open air.

And it felt relief when it heard the smith's voice, "I think you've been in there too long. Time for a cleaning, and then into my holster you go. There have been some bad sorts around lately, better safe than sorry."