Disclaimer: Tolkien's the genius, not me.
The delicate work of etching the many-rayed star of his House into the pommel was done, and the sword lay shining and complete on the work table. With a triumphant smile, Fëanor hefted it, reveling in its weight and perfect balance. He had forged dozens of swords, but this was the best, and the one he would carry.
He did not know that elsewhere Melkor was laughing at the fruits of the seeds sown by his lies.
Nor did he see Nerdanel behind him in the doorway with grave concern and not a little fear in her wise grey eyes.