Work Text:
Find him, Annatar. Make him remember his fear.
The steel, beaten thin, might almost be silver. A hammer stroke, and there is a hollow knuckle. A line of soldor, and there is a finger sealed.
(Breathe.)
Milk-skinned mother. Father never known. Both of them the same when dead.
The blacksmith does not outlive his forge. Pox took that town years ago, weakening the rest, and how long should a weak man survive?
You taught yourself? Sloe-eyes and smooth white skin--a comfort, among age-scarred faces. A comfort, to see flat, endless pallor.
I learned everything from him--the blacksmith--before he died.
A smile. A dark and hungry smile, that makes for hunger in return. Before you killed him?
Shrug, and he knows nothing and everything. Maybe. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
A nod of understanding. After a while, it is.
Curve and hold the metal, leather barely armored between fire and skin. In the pliant heat, drive the stakes--all narrow, all strong.
How old are you, my boy?
Count the years that never seemed to matter. Fourteen.
Come, then, with me.
The southern sun burns too brightly. Where are the cold forests, and the winding blue mountains, and frost on breath and bone?
Wherever we go, he promises, I shall give you a forge.
This forge has hooks and hammers, spikes and edges, for flesh as well as metal.
One more twist, one more strike--finished.
And long ago--
It is a collar, like you asked.
He turns it in his massive hands. Heavy. But a little plain.
A head-shake; not his, this time. Look.
Metal slides against metal, cruel thought against cruel memory. He smiles, and it is still hungry, but it also fills--
(You. It fills you. And you are fourteen, and he will have a forge for you, a place for metal and what metal can do, wherever you may go.)
(Breathe.)
You set aside your work. Blacksmiths come aplenty, and you will see them dead, but first it is time to drive home the fear of a slave.
One more twist. One more strike.
(Finished.)