Archive of Our Own

“What are you doing?”

The only matter Dammon struggles with at times is the living one.

It’s not all of the iterations that has a problem with, either; his whole life is filled with other people, after all. Starting with his old master back in Tempus’s Tears, a stern and quiet fellow who spoke Chondathan exclusively and never missed a chance to slag off the High Observer; then his fellow apprentices, friends from childhood, companions in the smithy and the taphouse; finally, the other tieflings, now more present in his life than ever, kin but not quite, forced together by circumstances. He found long ago that people, while definitely more complicated than iron and steel, tend to simplify themselves for the sake of others. All you need to do is latch onto that simplicity, embrace it and run with it until the finishing line appears.

The living matter that is children? That’s what he can’t work with.

“What are you doing?”

Children are different. Like strange machinery, not yet attuned to the wheels and cogs of the world, knowing little more than the gentle hand of its maker; it changes constantly, improves, upgrade after upgrade, until the end product turns out completely different than it was intended.

Tiefling children, Dammon finds, are even worse.

“Hellooo!”

There are so many tiefling children around him these days, full of energy despite the draining dust of the road, inquisitive even if the grove doesn’t welcome their questions; sticky-fingered, as he discovered not too long ago, a stern look and arms crossed being enough for the urchin to slowly put his set of makeshift pinchers back and scarper as fast as her little legs could carry her. Now, one of them is staring at him, a young creature that might be a boy, with horns barely visible in the mop of unruly hair and properly skinned knees and elbows. Inquisitive, almost unblinking eyes, focused on him like a beam of light. It is… unnerving, Dammon must admit, but doesn’t like leaving questions unanswered. He forces a smile upon his lips and takes the piece of metal out of its cooling bath of salt and water.

“Well, I have this gardbrace here and I-“

“Are you making shoes for horseys?”

Oh no.

There are two things you don’t ask the blacksmith, the saying in Tears went: one, if he accepts payments in kind, and two – if he dabbles in farriery. Anyone who did dare to inquire, be it a farmer or a Hellrider, met with the same reaction. His master’s face would grow red like a cooked beetroot, his hams of fists would clench around any weaponlike item available in the vicinity, and through gritted teeth, the answer would follow: no, saer or milady, this is a respectable smithy. Shoeing animals may be good for Thavius Kreeg’s little lackeys under their precious second sun (here, he remembers, the old man would spit on the ground with wicked satisfaction), but not for those who have a wee bit of respect for the craft. Dammon himself may not have been as passionate about Elturian politics, but somewhere deep down the disdain for the lesser (of course) discipline remained.

He is ready, oh so ready, to go on his usual tirade that no, he is not a farrier, never has been, never will be; that he hates horseys, horseys smell, and also, nobody has seen a single horsey ever since the devils had eaten the last one back in Elturel. He is so, so ready to say all those things – but the kid’s face is lit up with joy, eyes glistening with awe as if making shoes for horseys was the biggest dream of every seven-to-eight-year-old on this side of Faerun. You don’t say no to a face like that.

So he swallows the words, clears his throat of the aftertaste, and says, “Well… sometimes?”

“Are you making them now?”

He looks at the pauldron part he holds between the tongs quizzically, almost unsure of both his skills as a smith and the sharpness of the little one’s vision.

“I’m not?”

He isn’t sure who is the recipient of the question; nevertheless, it remains unanswered.

“Will you make them tomorrow?” asks the child with the determination worthy of a proper investigator. Dammon, against his will, gulps. The acceleration in discourse feels almost like whiplash.

“No.”

“Will you make them soon?”

Two can play the game of wits. Though some tend to fold too soon.

“… yes?”

“When?”

Strange machinery indeed.

But before he can find a suitable answer, the child’s mind switches gears.

“Papa said I’ll get new socks when we’re in Baldur’s Gate! These are full of holes and it’s an embarrassment to walk around like that, papa said! I look like one of those men at the Antlers and nobody wants to see that! That’s what he said. Papa.”

A foot appears on his anvil, clearly unshod but clad in something that could have been a sock back in the days of yore and now lives a second life as a parasitic being wrapped around its oblivious host’s ankle with the power of thousands of thread-like arthropod legs. The kid seems oddly proud of the fact – if all the missing milk teeth he presents in a smile can be any indicator. He wiggles his toes a little, stray strands getting caught between them.

“Disgusting,” he says, his voice oozing satisfaction. “See?”

Dammon simply nods. He does see it, after all.

When the kid finally lets go of his prey and leaves, his little tail wagging slowly with the satisfaction of a hunter, he feels like the workday is over. Has to be. He leans against the grindstone – or whatever passes as one in the grove – and lets out a long sigh of a man thoroughly exhausted.

“Cute little bug, wasn’t he?”

He turns around. And that’s it. He’s gone.

Karlach appears in his life for the first time, as she will time and time again.

“I bet you made a lot of horseshoes back in the day,” she says during one of her brief visits, still burning with the power of the engine inside her chest, him still hellbent on fixing whatever is wrong with it.

Strange machinery. But he is sure it will get better under his gentle hand.

“I love horses,” Karlach says, a longing sigh of someone who remembers being a little girl, drawing rickety ponies on any piece of paper available, and pretending to be riding a pegasus during playtime.

People tend to simplify themselves for the sake of others – Dammon knows that well. Now, the reason why is more clear than ever.

He nods with conviction.

“Me too.”

*

As soon as she finds him in Baldur’s Gate, she takes him out – and he can’t help but be in awe.

The night is young. Moths are dancing around the streetlights, the irrational flutter of their wings bringing them too close to the fire. They sit together at the table meant for two, facing each other and the people around them in the tavern, hands fumbling with their cups, with cutlery, with anything available. Awkward smiles, fits of inexplicable laughter – everything is so… strange, but oddly fitting. That’s one of the faults of the living matter, Dammon thinks. The irrational flutter of the wings.

“So!” Karlach puts her mug of ale away, a thud reverberating all over the tavern, perhaps even the whole world. “Any family that you might have here in the city, Dammon? Any relatives?”

He shakes his head. All the family he’s ever known lie buried in Elturel, in the shadow of the Grand Cemetery’s chapel. She tells him about a cosy spot hidden from the wind in the Lower City’s graveyard not far away that she visits every other day. He smiles, happy for her to have a place to store her memories; then takes a long swig of ale because it’s easier than wondering if his parents’ graves still even exist.

“Family’s good, eh?” Karlach sighs deeply, eyes wondering, perhaps following the dancing moths. “People that got your back no matter who beat the shit out of it. I always thought I’d have one of my own, eventually. Not just… not just the found family, not just friends that love you and protect you, but go back to their actual loved ones at the end of the day. Just someone by my side, for longer than till dawn, someone to have inside jokes with, someone who will understand our own little language. I want it all, you know? A couple of ankle biters, a dog, a cat, a fucking goat in the garden!”

His eyebrows travel all the way up to his horns.

“Ankle biters?”

“You know, children,” she answers with maternal patience. “That’s how people call them sometimes.”

“No, I know what it- never mind. It’s just… I didn’t take you for someone who’d want to be a parent.”

A moment of silence follows. The irrational flutter of the wings. But Dammon can’t look away as Karlach, suddenly flustered, takes a deep breath.

“I… I would. Fuck, I totally would. If it was possible. And I would be great at it, you know? Had a good teacher. My ma was the best. Always making something out of nothing, turning that… that Lower City shit into molasses. I would do that for my kids, too. For…”

She hesitates and the moment feels painful.

“For our kids.”

She shakes her head, then covers it with both hands, a groan of embarrassment following. It’s early, so early into this fragile thing they never really name – and the words are so exposing. But Dammon is gone already, gone fully and desperately, and her hesitant sincerity is enough of a confession.

“Hey.”

He reaches for her hand across the table. She flinches at first, still not used to being able to touch and be touched; but soon, their fingers entwine, blunt ends of claws and soft flesh of the palm meet.

“I isolated that faulty chamber in your engine, didn’t I? Who says I can’t reinforce it better, build some new component or… I don’t know. Yet. But I will find the way.”

Hand in hand, they walk together into the night, cobblestones under their feet and stars above them. There aren’t many words exchanged but mutual understanding guides them in the same direction. The graveyard looks beautiful in the strangest way, illuminated by the moon and sparse lanterns here and there. Surrounded by moths, they stand where her family lie and it is all so oddly fitting.

Strange machinery. It sits inside all of us, it seems. Even if we want to keep things simple.

*

Nothing is ever simple. Not even death.

They stand in the shop that isn’t his, an eternity between them, and Dammon isn’t sure what happened.

It started like it usually did, with Karlach at the door, hungry lips and arms athirst. The entanglement of limbs, doors locked in haste, sharp sweetness of tongues and impatience as clothes refused to fall to the ground quickly enough – and then a kiss of flame against his face. Her terrified expression as her engine lit up, even if only for a couple of breaths. A horrifying, cold knot around his own heart.

She won’t be able to rely on his upgrades for much longer.

He can’t fix her, at this point they both know that. And there is only one way to save her.

“Don’t even think about it,” she growls, a warning in her eyes, exactly as he’s seen it many times by now. “I don’t want to hear it again.”

Avernus. The only environment her infernal engine can work in. The only salvation. So many times he tried to bring the topic up, with gentle coaxing or quiet pleas. So many times she dismissed his words, changed the topic, drowned his words with jokes and laughter. But it’s too late for that now. He is gone, completely gone, and there is no turning back.

“You told me once,” he takes a deep breath, stopping mid-sentence, trying to lower the tone of his voice, “you told me once that you wanted family. Well, I want that, too. I do. But there’s no family for me, not here, not… not anywhere!”

He starts pacing, feeling wound up and taut like a string. She observes his every move, like an animal in danger. It hurts, it really hurts, but he can’t back away now.

“I don’t own anything Karlach, nothing you see around us is mine. Not really. Everything I had, everything I built, I left behind in Elturel. Some of my possessions, whatever I managed to gather in my arms, stayed at the druids’ grove. The rest was lost in the fucking Cursed Lands! I’ve been thrown out of so many places I don’t even know what home means anymore. So forgive me if I don’t want to lose the only thing that remains.”

He takes a step towards her, short of breath and too desperate to care if he suffocates.

“So who am I to you, Karlach? Why does it matter so little that I don’t want to see you die?”

She hesitates, he sees it clearly; her eyebrows wander up, chin wobbles every so slightly. A touch of tenderness appears behind her eyes and he allows himself to hope. But then…

But then her jaw tightens and tiny tongues of flames lick her shoulders.

“And who am I to you, huh? A piece of infernal machinery you can fuck or a free ticket back to Avernus?”

It feels like a slap in the face – and it probably is meant to be one. He reaches up to touch his cheek, or would do that if he could move a single digit. For now he stands, frozen, and Karlach burns bright with anger.

“Be honest, Dammon,” she spits out words quickly, angrily, not allowing herself or him even a moment of silence, “it’s all about what you want. Tinkering all day with fucking infernal iron,

playing with ideas how to make me work again… that is fun for you, isn’t it? So why not take the circus to where it truly belongs, right? I remember the gadgets these hellions were working on, different… thingamabobs. Impressive!”

She throws her hands in the air in frustration. He can only listen.

“You could spend days learning how to, say, use human souls to fuel the war carriages, I would slave away on the battlefield under Zariel’s command, and maybe, just maybe, we could see each other once every tenday. But hey! My engine would work, true! And you could mess with all you want. Sounds like a dream to me!”

She catches her breath, mouth open and eyes staring right into his.

“I will not be a slave again. Not for you, not for anyone.”

Then she leaves. The door slams against the frame, steps thunder further and further away from him until he can’t distinguish them from the bustle of the city. Moments pass, maybe hours, and yet he still stands in the same spot. Frozen in time and thought.

He wants to follow her, try to explain himself. Tell her that the call of infernal iron is strong and Hell marked him as deeply and irrevocably as it did her; that he would gladly go there again even if he hates himself for it, breathe the air no living being should breathe and let the devils dictate his every move – but the only reason he would ever give in to these desires would be to see her alive, to know that she is there somewhere, breathing, existing. There is no Elturel for him, no Baldur’s Gate, no house and no home. There is only her.

He feels it all. He knows it all. But he also knows one thing: if there is a choice to be made between the eternity of Avernus’ mysteries and Karlach’s smiling for her remaining days, the path to Hell can crumble to bits for all he cares.

It isn’t even evening yet when she is back. The door slams against the wall, steps thunder in a quick sequence, and heat overwhelms him as she throws herself at him, arms tight around his shoulders and her head buried in his chest.

“That… that was one hell of a play we were rehearsing, right?” she mumbles weakly. The front of his smithing apron gets soaked in a drizzle of tears.

He only nods, then again and again, a quiet “yes” following an even quieter “I’m sorry” as he wraps his own arms around her and the embrace makes his trembling hands less obvious. They both thaw, slowly but surely, and the world becomes slightly better again.

It all feels like a slap in the face, indeed. But people tend to simplify themselves for the sake of others. Time is finite, after all; nobody is given eternity.

In the hearth of his home, with Karlach around him, he accepts that.

*

The clockwork of the city works smoothly right until it doesn’t. The fractured sprocket wheel blocks the entire mechanism, oil oozes through the pipes, the pressure builds in the belly of the turbine. Then, it all explodes.

When the combustion happens, Dammon discovers there is another kind of living matter he struggles with.

The rumours about the Archduke’s misfortune reach his ears first thing in the morning, a fitting extra to a dozen eggs bought at a price that may have not been at a sluice gate level just yet, but was slowly reaching the stream. There are other things that come in dozens at the market square, too; pieces of gossip tied neatly in bundles and passed along to the starving, paid with an ear that listens and lips that gasp in mock outrage. The Archduke Enver Gortash is dying; has already died; is doing just fine; has a little cold; has been dismembered and sacrificed in the name of the Absolute; made the Absolute up as the longest-running practical joke in the history of the city; had two rolls and a scramble for breakfast. It’s a relief when he comes back home – or what passes as home these days.

From his forge, Dammon sees clouds of black smoke in the east.

He has heard plenty of the foundry in the Docks since his entrance to the city was granted. A leviathan of a place that let only a chosen few in, containing secrets of the Steel Watch and their construction. At first, he found it fascinating. There was a time when he wanted to request a post in the soaring, impressive structure, a work of craftsmanship in and of itself. But there was something about the building that felt wrong, even if it smelled of something familiar. The tall chimneys spitting industrial fog, huge locks on the intimidating gates, silent guardians, eyeless and senseless, roaming the premises day and night. Still, there is no point dwelling on it, Dammon decides. Now it only smells like fire.

It grows exponentially more difficult to gossip and speculate when there are soldiers of steel lying lifeless along the streets. The rumours turn to announcements, words printed and given away for a tanner. The foundry burns, then simmers, then ceases.

Not too long after that, new faces arrive.

The gnome looks awkward and oddly fragile as he stands on his doorstep, hands tight around a walking stick and eyes covered with a stripe of cloth. The tone of his voice, however, is anything but awkward, fragility be damned.

“Ah, there you are. I have heard of a smith with a certain spark appearing in the city. Zanner Toobin – at your service, hopefully.”

He inclines his head in a half-bow, respectful – and Dammon is dumbfounded.

He approaches the gnome cautiously, eyes searching instinctively for any signs of head injury. There are some things he takes for granted, he admits, like not dabbling in farriery for the sake of self-respect or never accepting payments in kind. Him being the one at service in the shop he runs is one of those things.

“With all due respect,” he says, unsure, wiping his hands with a rag to just occupy them, “I don’t think I follow.”

“Ah, but the news in the city spread quickly!” A single finger gets lifted in the air and Dammon looks at it with hope, as if the digit could possibly contain all the answers. “Surely you’ve heard of the downfall of one Enver Gortash? And a certain establishment he used to run.”

Of course.

“The foundry, you mean? Then you must be-“

“One of its unfortunate Gondian benefactors lost in their folly, yes,” the gnome states matter-of-factly, even if his face changes. A shadow of a grimace appears in the corner of his mouth, a sign of words tasting bitter. “But we paid for our madness greatly, I assure you.”

“I bet,” Dammon mutters to himself. Even when announcements on shiny paper drive some of the gossip away, the grains remain in the cracks of the pavement, among the baskets of eggs at the market, between the lips that gasp in mock outrage. “I’m sorry.”

Zanner Toobin shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter. People’s sympathies come in waves. One way or the other, the tide will turn again. For now, however, we need to follow its current.”

A pregnant pause follows. Dammon sighs softly as the realisation hits him. He knows what babe it will bear.

Still, it never hurts to ask.

“Master Toobin, what is it that you want from me?”

“People in the district regard you well enough, saer,” the gnome says, serious and sober. “Of Gond you may not be, but your work reflects his hand. We, the orphaned few, have no forge of our own, only ashes of our misgivings.”

He takes a few steps forward, his cane a steady pendulum before him. Dammon holds his breath, even though he’s not sure why.

“But, as they say, talking is for others.”

Despite the gnome’s blindness, despite the cloth upon his brow, their eyes meet.

“Those who serve Gond do.”

Dammon exhales slowly.

It’s not my smithy, he wants to say. It’s not my shop or my house, nothing in the city is mine. I just make do, holding onto whatever it takes so that I don’t lose balance. There is no such thing as home anymore, for me or for you. We can only pull each other down.

But he remembers Elturel. He remembers rage and disgust, made-up faults he and others had to pay for – even if they carried some of the guilt. He remembers his journeys, mourning people he didn’t even know that well but still thought to be worthy of living. He remembers Karlach, always remembers Karlach, doomed through no actions of her own.

The decision is surprisingly easy.

He lowers himself slightly. They shake hands.

“All right. Until you rebuild… well, do.”

Suddenly, there is more than one Gondian in the shop. The gnomes and humans enter through the door with solemn dignity and no explanation, and the clang of equipment being spread over any surface available fills Dammon’s ears. He should protest, perhaps. Put a stop to the madness. Instead, he joins in.

In the shellshock haze clouding his mind, he can only hope none of his new… coworkers? apprentices? surprise business partners?... guests have making shoes for horseys on the agenda.

When Karlach visits a couple of days later – somewhat worse for wear, but oddly calm and certainly alive – she doesn’t say a thing at the sight of Gondian craftsmen. She just smiles and her eyes light up more than ever; then, unceremoniously, she pulls him by the tail into the room at the back, locks the door behind them, and if he manages to see the stars in the middle of the afternoon along the way, that is only for the both of them to know.

*

With the blessing of Gond or whichever godly artisan that tends to the machine behind the city, the days are busy and work plentiful.

Now that Gortash and his Watch are gone, people want to be armed. Not only that: they want their doors and windows reinforced, their little pockets of safety ready in case the closed gates turn out to be useless. The Gondians and he have plenty to put their hands in – and put their hands they do, eagerly. Every single day brings a new challenge and, at times, a surprise: somehow, inch by inch, the courtyard around the humble smithy becomes co-opted slowly but steadily, the crates, casks, benches, and even looms filling the space snugly. Sometimes, Dammon worries somebody may finally say something, be it the mistress of the house he’s renting or whoever is supposed to watch over the Lower City now. But nobody utters a bitter word. It seems like there is enough air to breathe for everyone now, more room for a locksmith or a cloth finisher than there is for rules and obligations.

It may still not be home, but he is content.

Sometimes, he and Toobin sit together, bitter brew in cups, overseeing the work of others. Sometimes, they talk: of the foundry, the dreaded automatons it spat out, of collars despised more than the cut of a whip. Of the Descent, the allure of the hellish forges, of mysteries of forbidden knowledge.

Sometimes, their conversations take a different turn.

Just like today.

“I don’t think it could work. Truly.”

The Gondians work diligently as work is prayer and prayer is work; the sounds of hammers, chisels, and borers almost drown out the gnome’s voice. But Dammon hears it well enough. There is no other sound strong enough to reach his ears now.

“You’ve said it yourself, Zanner,” he argues, feeling almost like a child in his stubbornness but without any shame. “Her engine is similar to the ones that powered the Watch. You know how they work, Hells – you made them with your own hands!”

“I did. And of course it’s similar. Hers was a prototype, that much is obvious.” Zanner shifts on the bench they are both sitting on, his chin propped by the end of his walking stick. “The ones we made were more advanced, but they were also bigger, heavier… fuelled by dark things.”

Living matter. Dammon nods sharply. He knows infernal technology well enough to understand. I will not be a slave again, the words echo in his mind. His fist tightens around a clay mug full of his pantry’s finest.

“Then again,” Zanner takes a deep swig from his cup, “your lady friend is a living being. Not a machine. Maybe certain additives wouldn’t be required. But, and I cannot stress it enough, it’s only a speculation. A piece of guesswork outweighed by the sea of possible catastrophic failures. I’m sorry, Dammon.”

A smaller but equally calloused hand covers his own for a split second.

“We can keep talking about it all you want, but facts remain facts.”

The gnome is right. Dammon knows it well: there is no one else in this world who is better versed in the nefarious technology behind the engine. Embedded in the chest of someone alive, the strange machinery might not require the same hellish fuel it does to serve an unfeeling construct – but it is the humanity of the host that can prevent the technology from working. Infernal mechanics does not operate on benevolence. Its main function is to maul and destroy.

It is all logical and sensible, and Dammon can’t argue with that.

But he is gone, a man without a home, and things logical and sensible don’t apply to him anymore. There is only one hearth for him, in this world or next, and family should stay by each other’s side for longer than till dawn.

Sometimes, it pays off to keep things simple.

“I’ve heard a man say once,” he says slowly, measuring words with precision, “that talking is for others.”

They both drink, a long draught flowing continuously until they see the bottom of their cups. Then the hammers sound in the smithy once more and it’s time to get back to work. One pocket of safety at a time.

They don’t speak on the matter again that day.

*

Karlach wakes him up before the sun – and the city is shaking like never before.

He opens his eyes, still drowsy and groggy, but sobers up quickly. The audible crumble of the paving stones outside, threatening staggers of the furniture inside – and her face above his, jaw tight and eyes glistening.

“That’s it, smith. I’ve got to go.”

She pressed their foreheads together and the pressure hurts almost as much as the realisation. He can hear voices outside as people start to gather, screams of panic mixing with mutters of disbelief. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. It’s not home. He holds onto Karlach with all the strength he can muster, until she touches his cheek gently, a silent plea he listens to immediately. It’s not about what he wants, after all.

They both dress in haste and the sounds on the street turn into roars, cries of terror. Then, an explosion somewhere in the distance.

One last kiss. Things unsaid.

“Please stay safe. For me?”

She runs through the door, strong and determined. He gathers weapons and throws them outside for people to take. Some of the Gondians appear soon, armed and ready, with prayers in their hands and silence between lips.

The defence of what isn’t his home begins. And, as he hits and cuts, and fights his own fears, he understands fully what it means to be gone.

*

The machine of the city is broken, lying in crumbles between the bridge and the river. The cogs and wheels spill into the waters, painting it red with rust and oil.

He is running.

Following his nose, following the scent of home, he runs through the rubble and smouldering ruins, passing by pale silhouettes of survivors by will or by name and never seeing any of them.

The sound of his feet hitting against the wooden planks tells him when he reaches the pier. But he doesn’t see the ocean or the remains of what used to be the city’s greatest foe, or any of the people who helped take it down.

He only sees Karlach.

Her strong form folded in half, the boards underneath her knees turning black and red, her heart bright and burning as tremors take over her body. Her face lifts and a grimace of pain he sees almost makes him lose it. But then she forces a weak smile and he is gone again.

“I… I think your nifty little upgrade isn’t working anymore…”

He is with her in a matter of moments, despite her protests; crouching right at the edge of the circle of smoke, smelling his own burning hair and the infernal iron inside her, he takes her hand and refuses to let go.

The call of Avernus may be strong, but he knows he will never answer it again if it is its creation that tries to take Karlach away.

Strange machinery. Horrible machinery.

She is practically on fire, but he doesn’t care.

Rain, real or magical, falls on them both, her whole body barely visible from behind the cooling mist, the vapour searing and stinging him in the eyes. Soon, even water isn’t enough; he hears voices behind him, hasty conversations, but it doesn’t matter. Karlach’s hand is scorching, white-hot iron, but he keeps holding on to it, even when she tries to push him away, panicked words that he can’t quite hear through the haze showering him like a love confession.

Flames reach their joint hands – he can barely feel it.

It’s okay if it burns him. Nothing really matters anymore. He takes a deep breath and lifts himself on his heels. Just a step. One step into her embrace. The last moments of home.

Then – a tap on his shoulder. A walking stick brushes against his sleeve, already warmed by the heat.

Zanner Toobin stands behind him, uncomfortable, his face red, a whisker away from a burn.

“Oh, you better… move back, buddy… and take my sweetheart with you, why don’t you…” Karlach hisses through gritted teeth and Dammon turns back to her quick enough to see a desperate plea in her eyes. “My stupid, idiotic smith. Don’t come any closer, you two…”

“I won’t come any closer,” the gnome shakes his head, matter-of-fact, almost unfeeling. “But he will.”

He can hear a thud of something heavy falling on the pier. He can see pieces of metal, parts way more intricated than he could ever forge. He can smell the iron.

Still, he can’t believe it.

“But you said…”

The gnome shakes his head.

“Those who serve Gond do.”

“And… the guesswork?”

“It’s… hard to say. Could be a success. Could be an explosion.”

His hand is on fire. Karlach is on fire, teeth gritted, her bravery so heart-breaking but so beautifully, painfully her. They look at each other through the wall of fire. A quiet question. An adamant answer.

He nods.

“Then maybe you really should move back, Toobin. You and the others.”

There is something so awfully human in the flutter of the wings, his heart like a moth drawn to her flame, only closer and closer. Living matter reaches beyond the limitations of the machinery; Karlach’s eyes are full of pain, but there is still some room for trust.

He steps into the flames, infernal iron in one hand, everything that matters in the other.

The defence of what truly is his home beings.

Swallowing tears before the fire turns them to mists of sorrow, he gets to work.

*

There is a house at the edge of Rivington, halfway between the hustle of Wyrm’s Crossing and the silence of the River Chionthar. A large yard, a circle of sand and pebbles surrounded by fruit trees, opens to the high road, with a smith’s sign hanging at the gate. No shrine greets the travellers, but the presence of godly forces can be felt in the hot air of the forge – for praying to Gond means keeping your hands busy.

There is laughter, sometimes anger, lots of sparks of fire from forming steel and soothing waters in the well. The bleating of a goat roaming the vegetable garden freely, the sleepy snuffling of dogs lounging lazily under the woodshed’s roof. An old rocking chair on the porch screeches as the wind moves it, its frame bearing markings of cat’s scratches. Sometimes, if the windows are open, voices coming from inside the house can be heard.

“Nubbin, watch out!”

“Oh, don’t tell me she… yeah, we’ve got a string bean in the nose situation again…”

“I swear, we should just sell her to the circus…”

“… not the cat, kid, not the cat!...”

There is a smith with kind eyes and arms stronger than they look, shaping pieces of dead metal with the life-giving forces of fire. There is a warrior with a heart that beats stronger than any other, making something out of nothing, breathing, existing.

And there is a child, a little girl with her father’s deceptive calmness on the outside and her mother’s mischief behind the blue eyes. There is a house and a home, and the future.

And there is a horseshoe above the doorway, not perfect in shape as its creator had no experience in this type of forging. But it protects the house all the same.

Strange machinery, knowing little more than the gentle hands of its makers, changes and improves. And it’s simple. This time, truly.