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It was a lesson her father had taught as he handed her the little iron handaxe when she was old enough to accompany him for weekly firewood collections.
“Always take care of your tools.”
Finley, that gangly, disheveled, and perpetually dog fur-covered child that she had been at the time, had asked him something to the effect of; “Like how Geilir takes care of his dogs? Or like how you and Ma take care of Sully and Rhani and I?”
Liam had just laughed and ruffled her hair.
“No, not exactly. An axe isn’t a person or a hunting dog. It’s a thing of wood and metal - it can’t feel or think. But, that doesn’t mean you don’t treat it with respect. Keep the blade sharp. Keep the handle polished. Take care of it, and it will serve you for many years.”
And so, she had.
Over the decades, every tool strapped to her belt was kept in immaculate working order. Polished, cleaned, sharpened after each use.
They were, as Liam had said, things of wood and metal and crystal and magic - worthy of respect and care as extensions of one’s body and will, and perhaps even worthy of a certain love for the art they helped create, the goods they helped provide, and the even the martial protection they could grant if need be. Yet, they weren’t her dogs. They weren’t her family, her shield-siblings, or even her friends.
They were just tools.
Splitting the final block of firewood for the night, she sat on a nearby rock and opened one of the many pouches that hung from her toolbelt. Among the various trinkets and tools, protected by a leather wrapping, lay a sharpening stone, and she plucked it out, balancing it and her axe on her lap.
Yet, something caught her eye before she began sharpening. A deep purple crystal, about the length of her palm, nestled between a bar of soap and her sheath-knife.
The shard of Zaros’ arm he had personally given her in gratitude - if he could even feel gratitude - for restoring him to full strength.
Worrying the inside of her cheek and turning the sharpening stone over and over in her hand, she stared down at the shard.
It had been a long trek, a long fight, to put Zaros back together, and for what? Why had she done it?
Tapping her foot, she thought.
Yes, there was the looming Elder God problem - bringing Zaros back incomplete or injured could have spoiled the best chance of solving that and keeping existence itself intact.
Yes, she felt it right to spite Sliske’s attempts to divide people along factional lines, as well as to bring the god that Wahisietel and Akthanakos were loyal to back to life as a token of appreciation.
However, there was a single, far more pressing reason that stood out above the rest.
She had wanted to placate Azzanadra so that the blows the two of them had nearly come to time and time again would be little more than bygones.
And it had worked.
For now, at least.
He had smiled and praised her lavishly after Zaros’ return - called her a true friend - surely that meant something, right?
Yet…
She thought further, bouncing the stone in her hand.
What joy was conveyed by a smile that, at best, was some strained slash that barely hid obvious disdain, and how genuine were thanks and assurances of friendship spoken from that mouth?
What good was praise that was qualified? Praise like the empty and borderline insulting compliments she had heard before from some of the snobbier Faladian citizens during her stay there?
You speak very well for a Fremennik.
You’re quite good-looking for a barbarian.
You’re quick-thinking for a human.
You’re well-spoken for your kind. I’m impressed.
You are a credit to your race.
How real was any camaraderie between her and Azzanadra when the later couldn’t call the former a ‘friend’ without something cushioning the word and making the idea seem less…utterly distasteful to him?
Distasteful.
He wrinkled his nose every time she stood near, even after a (admittedly infrequent) bath.
He rolled his eyes and scoffed every time she lapsed back into her native Fremennik dialect or used a Finley-ish euphemism or double entendre.
His attempts to teach her the ancient arcane arts and hymnals were rife with subtle jabs at her race and heritage - except when she managed to cast a halfway decent spell or pronounce an Infernal word correctly, and then she was the smartest, most intelligent human student he’s ever taught, emphasis on the ‘human’ part of the equation.
His voice seemed to pause and hiss each time he called her a ‘friend’ - an affection that was completely absent in Wahisietel’s voice. Akthanakos’ voice too. Even Azzanadra’s own voice, when he referred to his fellow Zarosians or to Zaros himself.
It was clear now that it was more than just the idea of friendship that was distasteful to him.
She, herself, was distasteful to him, and the fact was now brutally obvious to her.
Her brow furrowed and she gripped the sharpening stone as hard as she could.
That keech-spewing liar…
“He’s no more honest than Fenrir wrapped in a baby blanket and bawling his eyes out, that great spiky bastard,” she hissed, finally tearing her eyes away from the shard and drawing the sharpening stone across the blade of her axe.
Teaching her the ancient magics, the curses. Defending her at the Ritual when she attacked Lucien. Providing armor and weapons and tools for her use on Freneskae. None of it was out of a genuine want to help or teach or protect. None of it was out of kindness or respect or friendship.
It was all just to sharpen her. To polish her. To keep her upright and pristine and in full working order.
“Always take care of your tools.”
She was a tool to him.
No more a person to him than the axe that sat in her lap.
Perhaps less. Far less.
Another swipe of the stone, another shing of the blade in response.
“But I’m not entirely sure you are human anymore. No, you are something else now.”
“Then what am I, ye pajama-wearing, blethering, worm-eyed, keech-speaker?”
Shing.
“What am I in yer eyes, ye crease-faced, silk-balled, sniveling clump of jobby?!?”
Shing.
“Ye might treat me like a rusty screwdriver hanging from yer toolbelt that ye can just to tighten the bolts in yer gods-forsaken head, but I’m a person, ye great arse-pit. No matter what ye or yer dickless hunk of crystal ye bow down to say!”
SHING!
“Human or…whatever ‘else’ ye think I am. I’m a person. Can’t be that bloody hard to treat me like one - it isn’t hard for yer brothers, I can tell ye that for free. But no, I’m just a tool.”
Just a tool.
Just a tool for him and Zaros to use for furthering their goals.
Shi-
Her hand halted mid-swipe, an idea worming its way into her mind. Perhaps a devious and underhanded idea, yet one that made her chuckle.
Why not challenge Azzanadra at his own game? If he was dead-set on treating her as a tool, what was to stop her from reciprocating in a sense?
He had power. Resources. Ideas. Access to Zaros, a transcendent god with power and resources of his own.
In a way, they were her tools, just as much as she was theirs.
Their goals were already alike - stop the Elder Gods from awakening and resetting existence. It would be simple to stay close to Azzanadra and Zaros, using their actions and plans towards that goal as a thermometer of sorts to gauge if she should lend her support or act in opposition and find a different solution.
Yet…
Don’t be like them, Finley, she reminded herself. Don’t be like him.
Find a balance. Treat them with respect as people. But make use of them as tools.
Colleagues.
“Aye, that’s what they’ll be. Colleagues. Not friends, no matter how much Azzanadra farts that word out his crease. Not anything like shield-siblings, either. Just co-workers trying to prevent the apocalypse.”
Nodding to herself, she returned to sharpening her axe, humming some aimless tune in time to the continued shing of the blade.
Always take care of your tools.