War’s Gift

The hammer beat against the red-hot sword, their clang resounding through the empty forge, a war cry. Once, twice, thrice, the Blacksmith beat the steel, until it was as smooth as a blade of grass, but far deadlier. Satisfied, he plunged the weapon into a vat of oil and hung it on the wall, to cool amidst a sundry of other munitions.

Sweat dripped down his bushy brow and into his eyes, prompting a deep grunt of annoyance. Pausing, he used the back of a sooty hand to dry his face. The day had been long, and a pitcher of chilled ale was calling to him, but rest would have to wait.

War was coming.

The Blacksmith could sense it, like the static in the air before lightning strikes. He had to prepare a hospitable welcome. After all, War was an old friend.

When he first met War, the smith was only a boy. His tiny village of origin was on the outskirts of civilization, but War loves to play with the weak and unsuspecting. The violent cavalier rode into view atop a bloody steed, armor blazing in the sunlight, fiery sword held high, poised for battle. The Blacksmith would never forget that first glimpse. In moments of solitude, working in the forge, he stared into the hearth and found that foreboding image painted in the red and yellow flames.

The encounter was brief but lasting. In the span of a day, War had vanquished the boy’s father and brothers and then took his mother and sisters as trophies. Surprisingly, he spared the boy—War had a purpose for him.

Assuming that his oppressor was mortal, the orphan fled in hopes of finding someplace safe until Peace returned. He was young and ignorant, but more than that, he was afraid. Try as he might, he couldn’t outrun War. Wherever he sought refuge, the bloody steed soon followed, blazing a trail of sorrow and destruction. Brother, father, child, they all fell before him. Friend or foe, it made no difference; both were killed by the same stroke of fiery steel. And when, finally, War was satisfied, he left each town a violated woman, clutching at the tatters of her torn nightgown, broken and bruised.
Peace was but a distant memory to the boy. Seasons were replaced with “War” and “Not War,” but with Time came clarity. As life’s trials weathered his face, the orphan was forced to adapt or burn.

In the forge, he found his calling, the very purpose Death intended for him. The violence and bloodshed were caused by man, of course, but man needed a tool. There was profit in the midst of the chaos. War had favorites, and in his good graces, the Blacksmith found gifts. Not a life of luxury, but security. There was always food on his table and a roof over his head. War was always inevitable.

Security of life did not mean security of happiness.

The Blacksmith winced. While working with one’s hands brings unmatched gratification, it allows the mind to wander, and thoughtlessness results in uninvited memories. The events of his childhood were distant, but there was a more recent wound, the pains of which had yet to numb. He had no intention of dwelling on such memories. As a solution, he forced his mind to go blank, focusing on the dull ring of metal striking metal.

The smith was so deep in concentration that he didn’t hear the door open, nor did he see the stranger enter. He would have remained oblivious, if not for the gong that occupied the corner of the forge. Created many years previous for a local temple, but never been collected—not even religion was safe from War—it had served as a dust collector ever since. That is, until the stranger bumped into it.

A sonorous sound reverberated through the forge.

Startled from his monotonous state, the Blacksmith whipped his head around. Surprise was soon replaced with disinterest, as he took in the worn cloak, soaked all the way through, and the bare feet, muddied by hard travels. With War came refugees.

“May I rest here until it is safe outside?” the hooded figure asked with a feminine voice muffled by the thick cloak.

The Blacksmith had been so transfixed by his labor that he hadn’t heard the rain beating against the roof. Hearing it now, he wondered how he had ever missed it. The wind was howling. It was a wonder the fire hadn’t gone out. Turning to his guest, he gave a gruff nod of approval, before reaching for another piece of stock and resuming his labor. He had three more swords left to make, after which, he would sleep, and then start again in the morning.

“Feel free to warm yourself by the fire,” he offered, gesturing to the fire with the half-formed sword. One would not take the smith for the benevolent type, given his stony face and barrel-chested appearance, but he left his door open to refugees. After all, he had been one of them. He had resources to spare, and he spared them gladly. That being said, he did not indulge curiosity. Questions were a waste of breath. He did not care to know them, and even if he did, they did not care to be known. Most didn’t even take off their cloaks. War has a way of sowing suspicion into even the most trusting hearts.

At his bidding, the traveler moved towards the roaring furnace, coming so close as to risk catching her sodden cloak aflame. As she drew near, he caught a glimpse of her cloak’s emblem—one he knew too well. It invited buried memories to resurface, the very wound he had been avoiding. No matter how hard the Blacksmith tried to bury them, the memories overwhelmed his thoughts like flame to kindling. His feet remained in the safety of the forge, but his mind wandered into the dangerous territory of a day long-passed, beneath the arches of a nearby temple. His hand still gripped a hammer, but his eyes saw a round face, hooked nose, deep dimples, and a broad smile. He missed that smile. She had insisted on wearing her kingdom’s emblem on her mantel.

A tear slid down the smith’s weathered cheek, dropping onto the hot steel of the final sword, and sizzling into steam. If only memories could evaporate so easily. Just then, thunder struck outside, and the forge rumbled. Blinking away the weakness, the Blacksmith returned to reality. He tempered the sword and added it to the wall, using the moment with his back turned to recollect his composure.

Taking off soot-covered gloves and apron, the Blacksmith disappeared around the corner that connected the forge to his home. He returned with a clay pitcher full of water. This wasn’t what he wanted, but what he had. Mead was scarce during such times as these. He poured two pewter tankards full, and trudged back over to the fire. The traveler took one gratefully, never lifting her hood. Relishing the taste, the smith sat down hard in a big chair, the only furniture he risked in the forge. Content in silence, he scratched his bushy black beard as he gazed into the flames.

“Thank you for your kindness, m’lord. You are proof that there is still good out there,” the refugee said abruptly.

“Oh,” the Blacksmith grumbled, uncomfortable at the invitation to speak, “I am no reflection of the world.”

“You disagree?”

The Blacksmith turned his head from the fire, looking into the sodden hood of the traveler. “The world is ruthless and unforgiving. You should know better than anyone.” He knew the nation behind the emblem too. Her people were peaceful once, until they were savagely attacked by neighboring kingdoms, all for the sake of more resources. War had many servants, Greed being chief among them. “Your people are nearly extinct.”

There was a moment of silence. Unfortunately, the traveler soon spoke again, “But I choose to see the light in this darkness. Yes, War reigns, but when held to the flame, silver purifies. In the midst of strife, people rose to the occasion—people such as yourself.”

“Providing shelter from a storm makes me no hero.”

“Why not?”

Frustration replaced indifference. Your nation of origin doesn’t excuse your insolence. “I have felt War’s flames.” There was bitterness in his tone. He could tell her about his childhood, describe the deaths of his father and brothers, or the horror of his mother and sisters stolen, but the numb ache of those wounds was old. There was a wound still fresh, a wound that festered. “They burned my love to ash.”

Thunder struck outside.

“I am sorry,” the hooded figure said, reaching out a hand of comfort, only to pause an inch from his shoulder. “I should have expected as much. Few remain untouched.”

There was genuine compassion in that voice, but it only angered the Blacksmith. “Do not pity me. It’s my fault he took her.”

“No one can stop-”

“But I let him take her. I didn’t even put up a fight.” His voice was hot with self-loathing. “She wanted to help refugees from her nation—from your nation,” he spat the words like a slur, “and I let her. I let her go into harm’s way, watched her walk into the flames. I was a fool to expect her to return.” Deep down, he still expected her to return.

“Standing up for people is very brave. You can’t run from War, but you can stand and face him.”

Her words struck familiar. Starting into the sodden hood, the face beneath was obscured by shadow. There was something very familiar about that muffled voice. Suddenly, the Blacksmith wondered at the identity concealed. “Take off the cloak.” It was not a request.

The refugee took a cautious step back. “What-no.”

The Blacksmith rose to his feet. He was a formidable foe, a hulking bear with a stony face, his bushy beard masking his emotions. “Take it off.”

“I would prefer not to,” she said, taking another step back.

In an instant, before she could stop him, the smith had lunged towards her and torn off her hood. “Serenity?” the word came out a whisper, so frail even the slightest breeze might blow it away.

All of her features had been branded into his memory since her disappearance. Her hooked nose and deep dimples were a welcoming sight. Even the hair, the uncontrollable tangle of curls, so distinct in his mind. That is—until he reached the mouth. There was no broad smile, only a frightened, trembling lip. And then, when he met her eyes, there was no recognition there, only fear.

It wasn’t Serenity.

Disappointment hit the smith, a blow more painful than any hammer. He let go of the refugee, taking a big step back. “I’m sorry,” his voice cracked. “I thought…I thought you were someone else.” He couldn’t look her in the eyes. So close, yet so far from the sight he had hoped for..

“No,” she said, attempting to recover. There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I provoked you.” She was quiet for a moment. “I should go,” she said resolutely, restoring her hood as she moved towards the door.

The Blacksmith didn’t know what to say. He wanted the refugee to leave. The emblem, her features, and even her words were too familiar. Not to mention the memories she invited, wounds too painful to bear. He wanted her gone, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t let her go. The storm still raged outside, but it was more than that. All of the reasons he wanted her gone were the same reasons Serenity would have helped her. His wife had been one of a kind—silver.

When he spoke again, it took great effort to keep emotion from bleeding into his words, “You were right.”

The refugee paused at the door. “About what?”

“When my wife faced the fire, it brought out her best parts. Helping others came so naturally to her, like breathing.” With great effort, he faced the refugee. “She was whatever good remains in this world, and she made me want to be good too.” It came less naturally to him, but he tried. He had resources to spare, and he spared them gladly.

“She sounds like a hero.”

“She was more than that. She was silver.” His face split into a smile. Surprisingly, talking about Serenity made him feel warm inside. It was as if he could feel her presence in the forge. It only lasted a moment, but the warmth lingered, and with it, his smile.

The refugee was still there, watching him. “You ought to stay the night,” the smith said, “There is a spare room at the end of the hallway, to the right.”

“Thank you.” He could hear the smile beneath the hood.

The Blacksmith barely made it to his bed, yawning like a bear on the verge of hibernation. Maybe in sleep, if Fate was good, he would dream of Serenity. Of a time in between Wars.

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