Chapter Text
Anor Londo was a bustling city, the largest in Lordran. Its name was spoken in awe by its allies. And why not! Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, was its eternal King. His children, brave and merciful and wise, assisted him in his rule.
There, the finest sorcerers vied with the purest clerics to craft wonders. The masons built high, the bells sang in mighty chorus, and the Silver Knights kept everyone in the very arms of safety.
Not least, the throng of the gods inhabited the Holy City, bathed in splendid light.
And humans-
Humans strove mightily for entry to the Holy City, but there were many already inside.
Tolly was a blacksmith. Her hammer had rung in a sunny backstreet for close to twenty years. Her children, both of them grown enough to be apprentices, were gaining skill and maturity day by day.
Tolly had ample reason to think about the differences between the peoples of Anor Londo.
A delivery had come just that morning: iron and steel from far Izalith, smelted pure and strong in volcanic fires. The courier who had brought it from the gates was a god, tall and elegant, strong enough to simply carry the heavy ingots in a wooden box. He’d slung a bundle of steel rods over his shoulder as easily as a human might carry a sheaf of wheat. She’d paid him, of course: a handful of copper and silver coin, which he’d accepted with good grace.
The gods preferred to do commerce in souls, but even a single soul was worth more than an entire delivery of good Izalith iron, and it made her shudder to think of trading a person - or the essence of a person - for those lifeless bars.
No, coin was good enough for Tolly.
Her customers paid her the same way: a copper coin for a box of good nails, or a silver one for a pair of good shears or a kitchen knife. She served humans, here in the lower city; the gods had their own, divine smiths, who kept them in arms and armor, and presumably tools as well.
Tolly was not permitted to craft weapons. Kitchen knives in human hands were powerless against the Silver Knights; kitchen knives were the largest blades she was allowed to make. Nor did she make armor.
She made chains to power the Holy City’s many mechanisms, and fittings and pins to secure them. She made house tools and gardener’s tools, and billhooks to prune the many trees that grew among the spires.
One of her customers wanted a set of chisels for working marble, so she selected a thin steel rod and got to work. It was of fine quality, new and unblemished.
This was the quiet part: standing at her counter, mulling over a pattern she knew and figuring out how to make it shine. The joyful clangor of hammer on iron would resume as soon as she had her goal in mind.
The sculptor who’d requested the chisels had a fondness for ornate decoration, but carving or ornamentation on something as utilitarian as a chisel would only compromise its use. Instead, she would make their quality visible in clean lines, hard steel, and a flawless temper. The solemn gray would take a subtle rainbow of hues as she hardened it.
The street outside grew hushed, and she looked up. A knight passed by, standing at least twice the height of most people on the street. Further down, a shopkeeper bowed; the knight raised a hand in greeting. They paused to exchange words, and even at this distance, the rumble of the knight’s voice was faintly audible.
The bar of good steel she held was dim next to the silver splendor of their armor.
Oh, to get a close look at it! To examine the fine etching, the precise gilding, the form that fit so very smoothly over the strong body beneath. Even the skirt of maille the knight wore was brilliant, without a smudge of oil or a slipped link to dull it.
As she watched, the shopkeeper leaned and pointed. The knight turned, then nodded a farewell and began walking again. To her little forge! What in the Sun’s good name could she have that they would want?
They did not stop at the open-air counter, set to be comfortable for human height, but rather opened both the upper and lower halves of the door to walk inside. High as the ceiling of her little shop was, the knight’s winged helm was just short of the whitewashed boards.
“Ser knight! What can I do for you?”
Up close, the godkin knight’s presence was tangible, a warmth like sunlight. The deep voice sounded from inside the winged helm.
"A buckle upon my greave has broken. I would have thee repair it, and quickly, or I shall be late in my rounds."
The knight pointed at their leg, knee bent for emphasis. Sure enough - the tongue of one buckle had twisted and broken, leaving the armor over their shin loose. It moved as they flexed their leg, and Tolly could only imagine that it would chafe its way down to skin if it were left alone.
The strap that held the broken buckle, dusty blue-black drakeskin, looked intact enough. She'd just need to replace the rivets.
Tolly eyed the broken buckle. Elegant in its form, its flowing lines spoke well of its makers' skill. The size, too- a small, sturdy clasp for the knight would pass as a belt buckle meant for a human.
"Can you take off that piece of armor, ser? Then I can replace it and keep the strap intact. I've a selection of buckles ready-made that might fit."
"Show me." The knight bent over the counter, peering down at a leather-lined tray as Tolly set out her wares.
She laid out steel buckles - one closest in size but delicate; one slightly larger, and sturdy. Her large customer loomed silent. She added a buckle that sported a few traceries of etching; the knight hummed, appreciative. She considered, then added one she had plated in silver. Expensive, yes, but it matched the tone of their armor more than the plain, polished steel, and the knight could certainly spare a few silver coins.
"That will do." The knight plucked the silvered buckle from her hand, working it with gauntleted fingers.
"It's silver plate, so the steel will be strong enough to hold. Good thick plate, too, it won't wear through."
"Very good."
The knight perched on a wooden countertop as easily as a human might alight on a bench. "Lend me thy hands, smith. Unbuckle the poleyn - the knee - and then it shall be free easily enough." They gestured at the space of floor between their feet.
Tolly knelt there and began to undo the buckles. She'd never been a squire, but metal was metal. She could do it.
Their knee was directly by her shoulder. She could see her own reflection distorted, as if in a domed mirror. Their lower leg was nearly the length of her torso and elegant as a sculpture.
Her sturdy hands pulled the buckles loose, one by one. The arming-clothing beneath was pristine, as white as the day it'd been made. Only a few scuffs and marks showed where the armor rubbed at it. The knight's leg was warm even through the padded fabric. Above the knee, a short segment of armor protected their thigh, rising just high enough that the fall of the chain skirt covered its top.
She was not going to look up.
The armor slid free at last. She lifted it - lighter than it seemed, whatever it was made of - and got to work. The knight perched silent on the countertop, watching; their long hands lay folded on their lap. They looked strangely asymmetrical, curiously vulnerable, with one leg all white cloth instead of shining silver. Their slitted helm gave them an ominous, alert expression; she did not look long.
Tolly turned her attention to the repair, instead. Working carefully, she cut the rivets free - she needn't have worried about marring the drakeskin, her little pliers would hardly scuff it.
She could almost see how it was made. Hammer strikes to form the curves from inside; etching and ornamental chiseling on the surface. Cast buckles - the pin that had sheared and released the strap, hampering their stride, had probably been stressed over however many years it had been worn. The hollow armor, still warm, was lighter than she thought it should be. Whatever alloy they used, she'd never handled it before. She might never handle it again.
The knight held out a silent hand for the broken buckle; she gave it over without question. Clearly, she was not going to be permitted to keep any part of their harness.
She set the silvered belt-buckle and tested it. All the while, the knight watched, a silent, ominous presence.
"There you go, ser. All done." The process had taken no more than a few minutes, by the angle of the sunlight, yet it felt as if it'd been an hour under that steady gaze.
"Shall I-"
"Yes."
She knelt again, and this time the knight helped her to hold the greave exactly where it should go. The new buckle was a bit larger than the old, a bit less bright despite its silvered surface, but it'd pass well enough.
No doubt, she thought, they'd have it replaced when it began to show its differences.
The knight set their knee-piece in place and she fastened the buckle behind the joint. Her arms wrapped around their leg as she fumbled with the strap, bringing her so close that her breath fogged the mirror surface. As she finished the work, they moved their leg, testing fit.
"A moment, smith, and I shall give thee thy pay."
Scrambling to her feet, Tolly nodded. "Two silver for the buckle. The work is-"
The knight's outstretched hand had no coins in its palm. On one long finger there danced a light, so faint she could barely make it out. Tolly squinted at it.
"Oh, no, ser, I couldn't possibly- This one is on the house-" The loss of the buckle would hurt, but her finances would cover it.
The knight stood, winged helmet just shy of the ceiling. Tolly felt abruptly very small.
Their hand tilted down toward the her, and by habit she put her own hands up. The flickering droplet of light gathered itself and flowed, resting as easily on Tolly's fingertips as it had on theirs. "Good and swift work deserveth its due. I shall remember thy forge."
"Kind ser, your generosity is-.”
She couldn't bring herself to say 'thank you.' The knight strode out the door, and Tolly stood for a long moment staring at the soul.
Never in her life had she held one - even at her own father's passing, his soul had gone to rest with his body.
"And who were you," she whispered.
The soul made no response.
She couldn't keep it. If it became known she had it here, it'd make her a target of every petty thief on this side of Anor Londo. No, she needed to exchange it. Deposit the coin in the forge's account. A windfall like this was money to run the forge for months, even if she sold nothing!
Exchange a soul for coin. This life, already gone, would go to feed three more. She'd wash her hands of it and never again have the foul luck to come to a knight's attention. Never again have such a wealth fall into her hands all at once.
Tolly shivered. The soul, serene, turned and shone like a candle's flame.
She tucked it into one hand. Was it imagination, or did it warm her palm where it touched?
Quick, one-handed, she set about closing the shop. When the children returned, they'd find a note that she'd closed up, and that they should decide where to purchase a fine meal for dinner.
The bank wasn't far. She could start the chisels later.
Before she could change her mind, Tolly went.