Belenos
Everchanging shadows dance upon the silent rock. In the depths of Gamilfûn, there is no sunshine or starlight to indicate the passing of time. The community kitchens are normally a place of light and warmth, rich aromas of roasting meats and baking bread, loud conversation and laughter. As Eilif lies on her pallet, her blankets are tucked snug around her against the cold. Wood, like so many other necessities that she had previously taken for granted, was now in short supply. One small fire was all she dares keep banked on the hearth, pitifully small against the great cavernous expanse of the kitchens that once fed scores of dwarves. Woefully insufficient to warm such a space. She lies and watches the shadows flickering on the walls and ceiling.
Unseen in the dark, a smile plays upon her lips. When she woke after the first attack, her face a blaze of pain and her vision nothing but a fuzzy blur, she had thought never to see the ceiling clearly again. Her relief as her vision slowly cleared with the passing days had been intense. The first thing her father had taught her about weaponry was the need to have a good eye. A good eye for line, for style, for quality of ore and gems and even a good eye for the heat of the forge. In the end Eilif had been able to tell just by the colour of the coals and flames if the fire was right for the work she intended. Her skill, her craft, was the most precious thing her father had given her. To lose her sight would have meant losing that gift.
Her eyes on the shadows, her thoughts drift to those days with her father. There had been just he and Eilif for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she herself was still a toddler in baby clothes, surrendering her life as she struggled to give birth to the boy-child they had both so longed for. Her father had come from a long line of weapon-smiths, and he had hoped to pass his craft onto his son, as had his father, and his father's father before that, stretching back many generations. Robbed of both his son and his beloved wife, Eilif's father had thrown himself into his work, for a long time mostly indifferent to the silent adoration of the little girl who traipsed along behind him wherever he went.
Faithfully Eilif had mimicked everything her father did, his walk, his stance, his dour manner of talking, and in the end, his work. Her dark eyes were sharp and missed nothing that he did as she silently sat or stood nearby, watching him, always watching him. She could not remember when she had first snuck to old Erkle's forge and bargained with him to do chores in return for being able to use his forge and anvil so she could try her hand at what she learned from watching her father. She did remember well, though, the day her father had found her there when he had dropped by to share a flagon of ale with the old smith. Her father had said not a word as he examined the blade she had been working on, nor had he spoken as he hauled her home. It was only when they stood together in the middle of his smithy that he had uttered the sweetest words she had ever heard. "I'll not have you learning from that half blind old goat, nor will I have you using that junk he calls ore. If you learn, you learn it right."
Thus had begun the hardest and happiest years of Eilif's life. Her father gave her no slack for being his daughter. If anything he worked her harder than he would any other apprentice. She would carry on the family tradition so her work must be perfect. There were many family secrets to their craft she had to learn and practice. In addition she must learn to figure and tally so she could bargain shrewdly for the best prices. He insisted she study the various forms of writing and language, so she would understand the written orders that came from the elven or human settlements, and come they did, such was the renown of their forge. On top of all this, she still had to run their domestic affairs. Many nights the young Eilif would fall asleep over a parchment, ink splattering the page from the fallen quill, and smudging her cheek. In time she grew to maturity, stoic and dour like her sire, clever and knowledgeable, strong and well muscled from long years at forge and anvil. She developed her own flare and style with her blades, and in time customers came asking for work to be done by "the young 'un."
It was been ten years now since her father had been killed in a cave-in at the silver mines. It had been all anyone could do to stop Eilif, mad with grief, from personally slitting the throat of the wood elf who had sold worm-riddled wood to shore up the shafts. After that she was no longer called the "young 'un," nor did she trust elves. The loss of her father left an ache in her heart and a hole in her life that she had sought to fill with work. This time since the dragon first came to Gamilfûn had been the longest she had not known the heat of the forge or the oblivion of exhausted sleep. Perhaps it was the sense of loss suffered by so many around her, but as she lies here this night Eilif feels more alone now than she has done in years.
Disturbed at the turn her thoughts were taking, she turns on the hard mattress, cursing softly under her breath as she tries to find a comfortable way to lie with the bindings on her arm. On cold nights like tonight, it aches abominably, but like with so much else, the painkilling herbs are in short supply, and she needed them so much less than others. Her eyes were drawn to the two sleeping forms huddled together on the other side of the room. The herbs she had given them, combined with the need of a healing body for rest had dragged them both reluctantly back into sleep.
Again she smiles a little as she lies watching them sleep. An unlikely couple, she thinks, going on what she knows of them both in the short time she has known them. But then, there was much unlikely about life at the moment. If asked, she would have said a month ago it was highly unlikely she would ever leave Gamilfûn, but here she was, wanting to with all her heart. Well, let them find happiness if that is the Maker's will.
"Which is more than you'll ever know." The words are whispered in the dark before she realizes they are even on her tongue. Unbidden her hand lifts to trace along the line of the wound on her face. Her fingers find a broad, rough scab that stretches from her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose, and onto her cheek. She needs no mirror to show her how hideous she must look. Nor does she ever lean over a bowl of water to wash without first ruffling the surface with her fingertips so she does not inadvertently catch sight of herself. "Coward." Again the word escapes without thought.
Impatiently Eilif turns again, this time rolling to face the other way, turning her back on Nasi and Fafnir, unable now to see them sleeping so peacefully together without a sharp pang of regret. "Fool as well as coward," she mutters to herself as she settles in the new position. "You had no use for a husband before you were.. before you were ugly." She spat the word out defiantly. "So what foolishness is this that now you pine that one will not want you?" Because just once, I would like someone to look at me as they looked at each other, a small voice inside answers her spoken question. Of all the men who had ever pursued her for his wife, none had ever looked at her that way.
She heaves a sigh, ruthlessly pushing down the sentimental thought. Lying there, she thinks of the valor she had witnessed from Nasi and Fafnir. They had been courageous beyond belief, and each so incredibly selfless; yet here she was, not only a coward and fool, but selfish as well. When so many have lost so much, when their whole city had been destroyed, here she was thinking like a foolish, vain and selfish girl. Feeling small and very ashamed she lies miserably in the cold and silent dark until finally she slips, exhausted, into sleep.
> Next
Unseen in the dark, a smile plays upon her lips. When she woke after the first attack, her face a blaze of pain and her vision nothing but a fuzzy blur, she had thought never to see the ceiling clearly again. Her relief as her vision slowly cleared with the passing days had been intense. The first thing her father had taught her about weaponry was the need to have a good eye. A good eye for line, for style, for quality of ore and gems and even a good eye for the heat of the forge. In the end Eilif had been able to tell just by the colour of the coals and flames if the fire was right for the work she intended. Her skill, her craft, was the most precious thing her father had given her. To lose her sight would have meant losing that gift.
Her eyes on the shadows, her thoughts drift to those days with her father. There had been just he and Eilif for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she herself was still a toddler in baby clothes, surrendering her life as she struggled to give birth to the boy-child they had both so longed for. Her father had come from a long line of weapon-smiths, and he had hoped to pass his craft onto his son, as had his father, and his father's father before that, stretching back many generations. Robbed of both his son and his beloved wife, Eilif's father had thrown himself into his work, for a long time mostly indifferent to the silent adoration of the little girl who traipsed along behind him wherever he went.
Faithfully Eilif had mimicked everything her father did, his walk, his stance, his dour manner of talking, and in the end, his work. Her dark eyes were sharp and missed nothing that he did as she silently sat or stood nearby, watching him, always watching him. She could not remember when she had first snuck to old Erkle's forge and bargained with him to do chores in return for being able to use his forge and anvil so she could try her hand at what she learned from watching her father. She did remember well, though, the day her father had found her there when he had dropped by to share a flagon of ale with the old smith. Her father had said not a word as he examined the blade she had been working on, nor had he spoken as he hauled her home. It was only when they stood together in the middle of his smithy that he had uttered the sweetest words she had ever heard. "I'll not have you learning from that half blind old goat, nor will I have you using that junk he calls ore. If you learn, you learn it right."
Thus had begun the hardest and happiest years of Eilif's life. Her father gave her no slack for being his daughter. If anything he worked her harder than he would any other apprentice. She would carry on the family tradition so her work must be perfect. There were many family secrets to their craft she had to learn and practice. In addition she must learn to figure and tally so she could bargain shrewdly for the best prices. He insisted she study the various forms of writing and language, so she would understand the written orders that came from the elven or human settlements, and come they did, such was the renown of their forge. On top of all this, she still had to run their domestic affairs. Many nights the young Eilif would fall asleep over a parchment, ink splattering the page from the fallen quill, and smudging her cheek. In time she grew to maturity, stoic and dour like her sire, clever and knowledgeable, strong and well muscled from long years at forge and anvil. She developed her own flare and style with her blades, and in time customers came asking for work to be done by "the young 'un."
It was been ten years now since her father had been killed in a cave-in at the silver mines. It had been all anyone could do to stop Eilif, mad with grief, from personally slitting the throat of the wood elf who had sold worm-riddled wood to shore up the shafts. After that she was no longer called the "young 'un," nor did she trust elves. The loss of her father left an ache in her heart and a hole in her life that she had sought to fill with work. This time since the dragon first came to Gamilfûn had been the longest she had not known the heat of the forge or the oblivion of exhausted sleep. Perhaps it was the sense of loss suffered by so many around her, but as she lies here this night Eilif feels more alone now than she has done in years.
Disturbed at the turn her thoughts were taking, she turns on the hard mattress, cursing softly under her breath as she tries to find a comfortable way to lie with the bindings on her arm. On cold nights like tonight, it aches abominably, but like with so much else, the painkilling herbs are in short supply, and she needed them so much less than others. Her eyes were drawn to the two sleeping forms huddled together on the other side of the room. The herbs she had given them, combined with the need of a healing body for rest had dragged them both reluctantly back into sleep.
Again she smiles a little as she lies watching them sleep. An unlikely couple, she thinks, going on what she knows of them both in the short time she has known them. But then, there was much unlikely about life at the moment. If asked, she would have said a month ago it was highly unlikely she would ever leave Gamilfûn, but here she was, wanting to with all her heart. Well, let them find happiness if that is the Maker's will.
"Which is more than you'll ever know." The words are whispered in the dark before she realizes they are even on her tongue. Unbidden her hand lifts to trace along the line of the wound on her face. Her fingers find a broad, rough scab that stretches from her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose, and onto her cheek. She needs no mirror to show her how hideous she must look. Nor does she ever lean over a bowl of water to wash without first ruffling the surface with her fingertips so she does not inadvertently catch sight of herself. "Coward." Again the word escapes without thought.
Impatiently Eilif turns again, this time rolling to face the other way, turning her back on Nasi and Fafnir, unable now to see them sleeping so peacefully together without a sharp pang of regret. "Fool as well as coward," she mutters to herself as she settles in the new position. "You had no use for a husband before you were.. before you were ugly." She spat the word out defiantly. "So what foolishness is this that now you pine that one will not want you?" Because just once, I would like someone to look at me as they looked at each other, a small voice inside answers her spoken question. Of all the men who had ever pursued her for his wife, none had ever looked at her that way.
She heaves a sigh, ruthlessly pushing down the sentimental thought. Lying there, she thinks of the valor she had witnessed from Nasi and Fafnir. They had been courageous beyond belief, and each so incredibly selfless; yet here she was, not only a coward and fool, but selfish as well. When so many have lost so much, when their whole city had been destroyed, here she was thinking like a foolish, vain and selfish girl. Feeling small and very ashamed she lies miserably in the cold and silent dark until finally she slips, exhausted, into sleep.
> Next