1 Frost 120
The hammer fell.
His arm rose and the hammer fell.
The ring of hammer on anvil traveled up into him, making him a part of the strike, a part of the yielding of the metal between. He was the tool, he was the surface, he was the raw piece being made new.
Sweat ran down from the top of him, from his arms and chest, drops falling from his brows and the tip of his nose onto the work being done, infusing all of it with himself.
The forge was hot, the room close and he was both.
The tall youth, just beyond what could be called gangly, was lost in his work. There was a place inside his head, or maybe it was his chest, that opened when he sank deep into the Smithing. Drawing out essence or placing it, if he was opened in this way he knew how to cause the changes as though they were his own will. They were not. None had been so far. His endless hours spent in practice had been the will of his old master. But he was not going to think about that.
The hammer fell. Sweat fell, splashing, slow to his eyes, hissing over the bright-hot piece being imbued. The dripping created a counter beat to the steady fall of his tool. His mind picked up the new rhythm and began to weave it together with his steady strokes. Tunelessly his voice came with no specific intention, pressing out between pursed lips as he began to hum a third sound into the weaving.
His conscious mind stepped back; allowing the parts of him that knew this craft, far better than it ever could, to take over. As often happened his consciousness slipped back into memories, entertaining itself while he worked.
The first time his talent had opened itself to the crafting he had been a lad, not sure of his exact age but just before puberty. His old master had left him alone, trusting him to finish plain forging the pieces the older man would Runesmith in the morning. Torin spent a lot of his time alone in the forge after his teacher had gone into the golden-lit house to be with his family. More often than not the man or his wife would have to bring the apprentice his meals there. He knew he was welcomed by them into the house, to sit at the table, share conversation with the young children or their parents. It wasn't them that made him feel unwelcome, it was the house itself, the light of if, the warmth and plenty it represented.
The couple, who had raised him for more time than his own mother, were as kind as any he'd known and he was devoted to his teacher. But there was a Fear inside Torin that skittered up inside him when he was in places where he couldn't identify the danger. There were always dangers. In the forge he knew each one, Fire, Blade, Hammer, Smoke, Dehydration. They were practically friends at this point, friends who made him safe in the knowing of them.
In the places that were ruled by Freely-Given where the dangers hid themselves, unseen and unknown until it was too late, Torin could never settle. He had tried, for years he had tried but he always ended up fleeing, to the discomfort of the good folk who tried to welcome and include him. It was easier for everyone if he just stayed away, kept mostly to himself, showing gratitude whenever the opportunity presented itself.
It wasn't as if he didn't eat. He ate as much as any his age, despite his shorter than average height. The food burned from his body like the heat of his work burned away quenching. What remained layered itself in corded strands over his frame like forged steel, hard yet supple. He was stronger than other boys, but this was one of his secrets. He kept himself close, words hidden, body covered, eyes down. He watched for movements that betrayed intention but more he listened.
He listened to the gossip of the men who came to barter or buy from his master, to the women who worked the stalls in the market, to the children who sang rhymes as they skipped and told tales of their older siblings.
No thought of machination or intrigue entered his mind, even as he grew older and began to have yearnings beyond food and a place to sleep. The only use he put to those knowledges he gained by listening was understanding when he should disappear, where not to be, what effect spoken words were likely to have on those who moved through his daily life.
The glow of the work was no longer confined to the metal hot from the forge fire, light began to seep up, like smoke, from the spell-forged tool in his hand, from the anvil below it. Sometimes Torin thought he caught glimpses of it glowing out of him, his arms as they manipulated tongs and chisel, pulled essence from objects, even, occasionally, while he shaped and cut leather. He believed this to be an illusion due to his mind being in that open space where nothing quite made sense and everything became clear. He had been so sure he'd been glowing, that first time.
The hammer fell, he sank deeper.
The first time his talent had opened itself to the crafting he had been a lad. His master had left him to his work, trusting him to finish cold forging the pieces the Runesmith would work his magic into on the morrow. He'd been tired, in the best way. His body was ready to stop but not exhausted, loose, warm and malleable. The pieces were small, to be made into charms with the aid of the mage who passed through the village periodically. He'd let his mind wander for the first time, no longer afraid of making small mistakes due to inattention.
He would not be beaten thrown against the wall by his throat if he did make mistakes; he believed that now. His master was not the man his father was. He didn't even flinch when the Runesmith reached out one of his huge, scarred hands toward Torin anymore. The man has learned to move with the same careful, deliberate motions with his apprentice as he did with white-hot metal. The touch wasn't common and never lasted long, a hand on his shoulder for a moment, a ruffle to his hair, a pat with a word of praise to spice it.
Once while the pair had labored over a weeks-long project, there had come a crucial time in the forging. The 'Smith had been afraid to leave the forge, even for long enough to sleep in his bed. The man had curled up on the pallet he'd eventually given Torin when he realized the boy slept better in the forge. Torin himself had been beyond exhausted, soot-covered and swaying on his feet. Too tired for words his master had pulled him down into his burly chest and the two had slept. Neither had moved at all, too weary to shift in their sleep, yet something had woken the apprentice in the wee hours before dawn. At first, he'd thought it was the project, but raising his head to look over showed it was still glowing hot. As he leaned his head back down into the encompassing warmth of the larger body, scent of smoke and quenched metal reeking off it, he felt something rise in him, not like the opening of Runesmithing. He was trying to puzzle it out when he burst into tears.
He wept so hard, though he was silent, that the shaking woke the Runesmith. The older man barely opened his eyes, but Torin knew he was awake and grew ashamed. Worried the older man would fear for him he broke out,
"Don't know why..."
Before descending back into helpless sobs. The 'Smith said nothing, just rumbled a reassuring sound that moved through the boy and tightened his hold on him. Sleep returned before the crying stopped and the next morning it was as if he'd never woken in the night. His master never mentioned it and the few other times they had shared his palet during a long forging he'd not woken before it was time to rise.
The whisps of power were coalescing into the piece now. It was a belt knife, a vanity piece for some lord whose name Torin would never know. It would be tougher than it's slimness made apparent, holding an edge longer than a plain steel blade, but most of the magic was going into the shimmering gradient of green to red. It was almost as much as he could handle on his own at a level worth selling to such men as could afford Runesmithing just for appearance sake.
This was the 20th day of this forging. He'd been at it since an hour before dawn, reaching deep into himself for the will to sprint for the finish. The light was fading slowly down over the city that he didn't even glance at through the wide-open windows. Only he existed. He was the forge, the knife, the tongs and anvil. He was the hammer. His voice rose into a song only the open part of him knew; wordlessly pure, high and bright and sharp.
The hammer fell.
The hammer fell.
His arm rose and the hammer fell.
The ring of hammer on anvil traveled up into him, making him a part of the strike, a part of the yielding of the metal between. He was the tool, he was the surface, he was the raw piece being made new.
Sweat ran down from the top of him, from his arms and chest, drops falling from his brows and the tip of his nose onto the work being done, infusing all of it with himself.
The forge was hot, the room close and he was both.
The tall youth, just beyond what could be called gangly, was lost in his work. There was a place inside his head, or maybe it was his chest, that opened when he sank deep into the Smithing. Drawing out essence or placing it, if he was opened in this way he knew how to cause the changes as though they were his own will. They were not. None had been so far. His endless hours spent in practice had been the will of his old master. But he was not going to think about that.
The hammer fell. Sweat fell, splashing, slow to his eyes, hissing over the bright-hot piece being imbued. The dripping created a counter beat to the steady fall of his tool. His mind picked up the new rhythm and began to weave it together with his steady strokes. Tunelessly his voice came with no specific intention, pressing out between pursed lips as he began to hum a third sound into the weaving.
His conscious mind stepped back; allowing the parts of him that knew this craft, far better than it ever could, to take over. As often happened his consciousness slipped back into memories, entertaining itself while he worked.
The first time his talent had opened itself to the crafting he had been a lad, not sure of his exact age but just before puberty. His old master had left him alone, trusting him to finish plain forging the pieces the older man would Runesmith in the morning. Torin spent a lot of his time alone in the forge after his teacher had gone into the golden-lit house to be with his family. More often than not the man or his wife would have to bring the apprentice his meals there. He knew he was welcomed by them into the house, to sit at the table, share conversation with the young children or their parents. It wasn't them that made him feel unwelcome, it was the house itself, the light of if, the warmth and plenty it represented.
The couple, who had raised him for more time than his own mother, were as kind as any he'd known and he was devoted to his teacher. But there was a Fear inside Torin that skittered up inside him when he was in places where he couldn't identify the danger. There were always dangers. In the forge he knew each one, Fire, Blade, Hammer, Smoke, Dehydration. They were practically friends at this point, friends who made him safe in the knowing of them.
In the places that were ruled by Freely-Given where the dangers hid themselves, unseen and unknown until it was too late, Torin could never settle. He had tried, for years he had tried but he always ended up fleeing, to the discomfort of the good folk who tried to welcome and include him. It was easier for everyone if he just stayed away, kept mostly to himself, showing gratitude whenever the opportunity presented itself.
It wasn't as if he didn't eat. He ate as much as any his age, despite his shorter than average height. The food burned from his body like the heat of his work burned away quenching. What remained layered itself in corded strands over his frame like forged steel, hard yet supple. He was stronger than other boys, but this was one of his secrets. He kept himself close, words hidden, body covered, eyes down. He watched for movements that betrayed intention but more he listened.
He listened to the gossip of the men who came to barter or buy from his master, to the women who worked the stalls in the market, to the children who sang rhymes as they skipped and told tales of their older siblings.
No thought of machination or intrigue entered his mind, even as he grew older and began to have yearnings beyond food and a place to sleep. The only use he put to those knowledges he gained by listening was understanding when he should disappear, where not to be, what effect spoken words were likely to have on those who moved through his daily life.
The glow of the work was no longer confined to the metal hot from the forge fire, light began to seep up, like smoke, from the spell-forged tool in his hand, from the anvil below it. Sometimes Torin thought he caught glimpses of it glowing out of him, his arms as they manipulated tongs and chisel, pulled essence from objects, even, occasionally, while he shaped and cut leather. He believed this to be an illusion due to his mind being in that open space where nothing quite made sense and everything became clear. He had been so sure he'd been glowing, that first time.
The hammer fell, he sank deeper.
The first time his talent had opened itself to the crafting he had been a lad. His master had left him to his work, trusting him to finish cold forging the pieces the Runesmith would work his magic into on the morrow. He'd been tired, in the best way. His body was ready to stop but not exhausted, loose, warm and malleable. The pieces were small, to be made into charms with the aid of the mage who passed through the village periodically. He'd let his mind wander for the first time, no longer afraid of making small mistakes due to inattention.
He would not be beaten thrown against the wall by his throat if he did make mistakes; he believed that now. His master was not the man his father was. He didn't even flinch when the Runesmith reached out one of his huge, scarred hands toward Torin anymore. The man has learned to move with the same careful, deliberate motions with his apprentice as he did with white-hot metal. The touch wasn't common and never lasted long, a hand on his shoulder for a moment, a ruffle to his hair, a pat with a word of praise to spice it.
Once while the pair had labored over a weeks-long project, there had come a crucial time in the forging. The 'Smith had been afraid to leave the forge, even for long enough to sleep in his bed. The man had curled up on the pallet he'd eventually given Torin when he realized the boy slept better in the forge. Torin himself had been beyond exhausted, soot-covered and swaying on his feet. Too tired for words his master had pulled him down into his burly chest and the two had slept. Neither had moved at all, too weary to shift in their sleep, yet something had woken the apprentice in the wee hours before dawn. At first, he'd thought it was the project, but raising his head to look over showed it was still glowing hot. As he leaned his head back down into the encompassing warmth of the larger body, scent of smoke and quenched metal reeking off it, he felt something rise in him, not like the opening of Runesmithing. He was trying to puzzle it out when he burst into tears.
He wept so hard, though he was silent, that the shaking woke the Runesmith. The older man barely opened his eyes, but Torin knew he was awake and grew ashamed. Worried the older man would fear for him he broke out,
"Don't know why..."
Before descending back into helpless sobs. The 'Smith said nothing, just rumbled a reassuring sound that moved through the boy and tightened his hold on him. Sleep returned before the crying stopped and the next morning it was as if he'd never woken in the night. His master never mentioned it and the few other times they had shared his palet during a long forging he'd not woken before it was time to rise.
The whisps of power were coalescing into the piece now. It was a belt knife, a vanity piece for some lord whose name Torin would never know. It would be tougher than it's slimness made apparent, holding an edge longer than a plain steel blade, but most of the magic was going into the shimmering gradient of green to red. It was almost as much as he could handle on his own at a level worth selling to such men as could afford Runesmithing just for appearance sake.
This was the 20th day of this forging. He'd been at it since an hour before dawn, reaching deep into himself for the will to sprint for the finish. The light was fading slowly down over the city that he didn't even glance at through the wide-open windows. Only he existed. He was the forge, the knife, the tongs and anvil. He was the hammer. His voice rose into a song only the open part of him knew; wordlessly pure, high and bright and sharp.
The hammer fell.
