Forgefires of Fate
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Tue, 08/14/2012 - 13:29
- A Thorns Of Steel fanfic relating the story of one of the main participant's siblings who has yet to show his face on the MUCK...enjoy.**
Clang.
Clang.
The hammer came down again and again on the lump of ore, making a resounding clang with each hit.
Clang.
With each clang, images flashed through Emyuil’s mind.
Clang.
Screams of terror. Mad laughter mingled with the harsh cries of ravens. Running blindly, mindless fear...Too late...Too late...
Clang.
Lily sprawled out, motionless, a raven pecking at the corpse. A scream. “No!” Mad laughter, a cloaked figure towering over him twirling a strange weapon.
Clang.
Down on the ground, hurled against something, too dazed to act as the fox disappears as quickly as he came, the raven following him.
Clang.
The scent of freshly dug soil, almost turned to mud by the tears. The fragrance of newly cut flowers sprinkled on the earth. The tombstone marked with only one word: “Lily”.
Clang.
A small figure disappearing in the distance, over the horizon. Standing on a hilltop, watching, hanging his head. Wanting to follow. Wanting with all his heart to accompany the lone traveler.
Clang.
Several days spent, imprisoned in his bedroom by his own choice. Losing the will to live, the will to go on. His parents and brothers doing the work in the forge and the house alone.
Clang.
Without warning, Dryditch Fever strikes, confining his parents and older brother to their beds. Whispers from the townsfolk when they thought he couldn’t hear them. “It was the vermin,” they say. “The vermin brought it with them.” “How is he going to carry on alone?” “Poor lad,” and other such sympathetic remarks. Creatures coming to the door, day and night, saying that if he needed a home, they had one with them. Thinking that he already had a home, that everything was going to be fine…
Clang.
Two more graves. More tears, more rage and grief. Beasts coming to the door, saying he had their sympathy. Thinking, I don’t want your blasted sympathy! I want my family back!
Clang.
His brothers leaving home, for apprenticeships in Roma. Why are they leaving now, when he needs them most? Losing the will to live, or, for that matter, to do anything
Clang.
Tears, grief, pain, the forge unattended, the house falling into disrepair. Beasts coming by to offer their help. Answering, “How will that bring them back? What difference does it make? What point is there to anything anymore?”
Clang.
Pondering that very question in the endless hours of brooding in his dusty room. Rising to his feet, full of new energy, as he finds the answer.
Clang.
Thinking that, if only he can kill the murderers of his family, that some way, somehow, that would bring them back. A burning desire to settle the debt of blood.
Clang.
Going in to town, asking for help, and receiving such answers as, “You’re far too young,” “There’s no hope,” “You’ll never find them,” and “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” Wanting to scream, “But it is right!”
Clang.
Calling them blind fools and storming back to the house. Thinking that even if he did catch the fox, he wouldn’t have a way to kill him. Rising to his feet, and lighting the forge one more time.
Clang.
Searching for appropriate metal to make a weapon. Finding a strange pitch-black lump of metal, blacker than obsidian. Something inside telling him that this was the one.
Clang.
Pondering, thinking of what weapon would be worthy of avenging the Strongheart family. Settling on a weapon his father had taught him to use: A double-edged hand-and-a-half sword. Designing a hilt for the weapon, with a long crossguard, straight until the very ends, where it angled up, to trap a foebeast’s weapon.
Clang.
Placing it on the anvil, letting it heat for what seemed like an eternity. Gripping his father’s hammer, the hammer still a bit too large for him to wield properly. Bringing the hammer down, and striking the first blow, causing an echoing clang.
Clang.
It was finished. Emyuil retrieved a pair of brass tongs from a nearby table, and seized the blade, tilting it, seeing how the light of the forgefire played across the black metal. He dropped the blade in a tub of water, making a sizzle as the heated ore came in contact with the liquid, then making a soft clang as it touched the bottom of the tub, setting the tongs on the table with another soft clang as they brushed the wooden surface.
Clang.
Many seasons before, helping his father to dig a deep hole beneath a starry night sky. Digging for hours before finding a black chunk of metal. Looking up at his father and asking what it was. His father leaning on his shovel and saying, “Deepiron.” Asking what deepiron was. His father answering, “According to legends, there exists a strange metal, blacker than a moonless night, called deepiron, or, by some, ‘true iron’. A metal stronger, easier to shape, and rarer than any other ore, the ideal material for making a weapon, something I’ve searched for my entire life. And we just found it!” Gazing into the hole, asking how his father had known that there was deepiron in there. The older mouse ruffling his son’s headfur fondly, saying not to worry about it.
Clang.
Walking home with his father, struggling to keep up with the older mouse’s pace. Asking if he could carry the deepiron. His father laughing and handing the metal to him. Staggering under its weight, and tripping, falling on the cold dirt with a THUD. His father laughing again as he picked up the ore, and his son, carrying them both on his back as if they weighed nothing. Laughing with his father, and falling asleep there on his father’s back.
Emyuil worked far into the night, making final adjustments, setting a pale gemstone into the base of the blade, and joining the blade to the hilt. Finally, when he was finished, he carved an image of a lily into the blade, with the gem as its center, and, after a moment of thought, etching the word Nevermore along the blade in flowing script. He hefted the sword, feeling its weight, then nodded, satisfied, as he felt its perfect balance. Just as I designed it. Suddenly he whirled the sword through the air, bringing it back and over along the surface of the table, cleaving a poker in two. Lesser ores cannot withstand a blade of true iron, he thought with satisfaction.
He swept the blade into a sheath he had crafted earlier for it, buckled one of his father’s old sword belts on, placing the sheath across his back, and walked towards the door. Suddenly the floor felt hot under his paws. He jumped back, startled, as he saw that the forgefire had, unbeknownst to him, spread out of the furnace area and ignited several parts of the forge. He considered extinguishing them, then shook his head. I will lay my ghosts to rest in the rubble of this place. He walked out the door as the building caught fire.
The next day, wearing his traveling cloak and carrying a haversack over his shoulder, he walked along a lonely road, the smoke of the collapsed forge filling the skies behind him. Some of it came from his home; the fire had spread to the house as well. He didn’t care. He had no intention of ever returning. He turned back one more time, gazing east to everything he had known, looking at the town, from which a line of beasts was coming to investigate the fires, looking at the ruins of the forge and his home, his whole life, then turned his face west, to the distant forests, Redwall Abbey, if legends were to be believed, and, possibly, his older sister.
And, if he was fortunate, his family’s killer.
Emyuil left the Eastern Plains and never looked back.
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