Smithy - Chap 3

   It seemed to Tristan that he had only just closed his eyes when he was woken by a knock on the door. Looking around, he realized that the night had already given way to morning. His entire body was stiff and hurt so severely that he could barely push himself up.

    With a tired and pained groan, he called out, “Come in.”

    The little wooden door opened and Ailla stuck her head inside, adorned with her mop of red and curly hair and bright, emerald green eyes.

    “Well Hello there,” she said with a soft smile. Stepping inside, she closed the door softly behind her before settling upon the bed. “Hagon tells me you had one of your attacks last night.”

    Tristan’s cheeks flushed with something between anger and embarrassment and he felt himself drawing his knees up to his chest. The attacks had been getting worse and, while none of them truly understood what was happening, it only made him feel worse to be singled out this way. Not to mention, he didn’t like the idea of Hagon swapping stories, even if it was with Ailla.

    “Oh stop.” She said, lightly slapping him on the shoulder. “We’ve known each other since we were babes. You’ve nothing to be blushing over.”

    “I know.” Tristan said weakly, trying to unclench his body which was unconsciously going into the fetal position. “I just don’t know what to do.”

    Ailla nodded. They’d had these conversations a few times now and it was no mystery that Tristan was feeling more and more depressed. Each time he became a little more hopeless.

    “You already know the answer.” She said, still trying to keep that same smile as she spoke.

    “Whitecrest.” He said almost under his breath.

    Ailla nodded once more, this time in agreement.

    “I just don’t know...” he continued. “What if something happens on the trip there? What if the magisters aren’t able to find whatever’s wrong and they just tell me that they don’t know how to help?”

    “And what if the magisters have a fix that they can whip up in a matter of seconds while you’re sitting here moping in your bedroom?”

    Tristan didn’t answer right away. He looked from Ailla to the sparse decorations of his little room. The walls were hard wood. Barren except for a pair of tongs and a hammer he had hung on either side of his window. His clothes were tightly packed away in a small chest at the foot of his bed. It struck him for some reason that his room was basically empty. He never felt the desire to decorate.

    “You’re right, Ailla.” He said as he drew his attention back to her. “Of course you’re right. It’s just…”

    She reached over and gingerly lifted his chin with one finger so that they might look each other in the eyes.

    “I know, love. But Whitecrest is only a couple days travel. We can get you in and out and back here before you know it.”

    Looking into those emerald green eyes, Tristan couldn’t help but feel a little better. He’d known Ailla almost all of their lives and there was always something that made his heart soften and his worries calm. He’d considered more than once attempting to court her, but he never had the heart to go through with it.

    “Alright.” He said, agreeing with her once again.

    They sat in silence for a few moments, looking at each other. That soft smile never left her face. The longer he looked, the more his own lips curled into a smile to match her own. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

    “You’re right, you’re right.” Tristan said with a nod.

    “Of course I am.”

    “Of course you are.” He echoed with a soft chuckle.

    Ailla raised an eyebrow and tilted her head playfully. “Are we going somewhere with this or…?”

    “Breakfast?” he asked quickly.

    “Sorry?”

    “Do you want breakfast?”

    “First you compliment me, next you feed me. If you’re not careful, I might not leave.” She said slipping off his bed and helping him up as well.

    Tristan’s smile got bigger at the thought, but he said nothing further as he followed her to the kitchen. Instead, he elected to listen as she made small talk, telling him about her morning, about meeting Hagon, and about Hagon recanting the tale of the night before. It still irked him to think that he was a topic of gossip, but couldn’t help but feel better that Ailla had come to wake him. Somehow, it made the sun shine just a little brighter.

---

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Smithy - Chap. 2

    Tristan could hear something. His name? No, it had to be the sound of his heart. His heart was so loud! He was dying. He had to be dying, if he wasn’t dead already. The world was already black, it was only a matter of time til the beating stopped and then…

    “TRISTAN!”

    His eyes snapped open with a start to see Hagon kneeling over him. The sight of his mentor reassured him, but his breathing was coming in rapid gasps. Surely his heart would give out any moment. It was only a matter of time.

    “Easy, boy. Easy.” Hagon said, cupping his hand under the back of Tristan’s head. “Breathe slower.”

    The world around him was spinning, blackness playing on the edges of his vision.

    “I…I…I ca-ca-ca-…”

    “Yes, you can, boy. Close your eyes and hold your breath. You know that’s helped before.”

    “N-n-n-“

    Hagon’s hand came across his face with enough force that Tristan was shocked he didn’t black out again. He felt his chest tighten threateningly and a shock jolted through his body, but nothing came of it.

    “Don’t tell me ‘no’. Now hold your breath, boy. Then breathe deep!”

    Tristan felt his chest convulsing and his breathing becoming even more erratic as he thought about holding his breath. He was probably speeding up his own demise. What if he didn’t take another breath? What if he killed himself trying to…

    Another slap, this time even harder.

    Tristan almost sobbed as he sucked on the air. His hands and feet were tingling as if a thousand needles were playing across his skin. They were cold and clammy, soaked with sweat. Mustering all his might, he drew in a breath and held it.

    “Good. Long as you can and then slow back out.” Hagon said, his voice softening.

    Tristan coughed and sputtered after a second, choking on the very air his body screamed for. But he did it again, this time with a bit more control. A little slower. A little deeper. Hagon said nothing more as he watched.

    Each breath was better. The deep breaths made his head spin even worse, but they made the tingling in his hands stop and his heart too began to slow in his chest. Minutes dropped away as Tristan tried his best just to focus on controlling his breathing.

    After a long while, the feeling of dread started to fade.

    “You alright?” Hagon asked finally, staring down at him with concern in his eyes.

    “I-I…Yea…” Tristan said with a weak nod, his mind still focused on trying to control his breath.

    “That’s the third one this week.” Hagon said matter of factly. “They’re getting worse.”

    Tristan nodded again but said nothing.

    For the last few months, Tristan had been struck by ‘attacks’ as they called them. Without real warning, he would be gripped by unprovoked terror. They struck hard and fast and were absolutely debilitating, leaving Tristan gasping for air and feeling like his heart was going to explode. Some were longer than others, but they always passed leaving him feeling exhausted but no real worse for wear.

    The first time it had happened, Hagon had thought that his apprentice was dying. Now, he more readily recognized what was happening even when Tristan couldn’t. Often, it was Hagon who helped to bring Tristan’s mind back from the brink of fear and madness.

    Like many times before, Hagon pulled him up out of the mud that was forming beneath his sweat soaked body.

    “We need to do something about this, boy. We’ve already tried the village doctor. You need to travel to Whitecrest. They’ve got specialists. Magisters.”

    Tristan couldn’t bring himself to look at Hagon but nodded in agreement. They’d had the conversation more times than he could count since he had gone to the village doctor three months ago. The doctor could find no reason for the attacks, implying perhaps that Tristan had been cursed or angered some magical being since he showed no sign of severe injury or disease. The response had rightfully angered them both, but Tristan had never had the will to keep searching for an answer.

    “I know.” Tristan said weakly, his voice shaking and quiet.

    Hagon stared at him for a long time. It only made Tristan feel more weak and small in comparison to his mentor’s hard gaze and imposing figure in the darkness.

    “Tomorrow. For now, bed.”

    Tristan didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. Instead, he trudged his way inside with Hagon in tow to make sure he didn’t collapse again. Once he was safely to the little room he called his own, Tristan fell to his bed and closed his eyes. He was still focusing on controlling his breathing when he passed into an uneasy and restless sleep.

 ---

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Smithy - Chap 1

 

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    Clang!

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Tristan’s hammer came down on the hot metal with a flash of sparks. Each hit gave it a bit more shape, a bit more life. With each strike, it started to resemble the sword he had imagined versus the chunk of near-molten metal he had drawn from the mold.

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Less sparks. Less give. The metal was cooling too fast. He needed to finish before it got any worse. He’d already reheated and refolded the metal so many times. If he didn’t work it just right...

    Kt-cl-Bang!

    No sparks. Just metal on metal. The hammer ricocheted off the cooling steel. With a sigh, he tossed the unfinished sword into the barrel of water next to him and left it there. He couldn’t work on the damned thing anymore tonight.

    The shop around him was empty. It was well past midnight and everyone in town had probably retired hours earlier. Even old Hagon, who always found some reason to stick around when Tristan was working, had finally gone to bed after hours of waiting. Tristan himself should have given up long before, but he just couldn’t let himself go. Not until the blade was just right.

    But it wasn’t right.

    He had been toiling away for hours. Heating and reheating, hammering away and grinding away bits here and there. It just wasn’t right.

    Why couldn’t he get it right?

    Tristan gripped his hammer tighter. He desperately just wanted to throw it. Somewhere. Anywhere! He wanted to scream and break things. To just throw up his arms and curse the gods that invented the very concept of blacksmithing and whatever piece of shit lord that requested the damndable piece of metal that was giving him so much trouble.

    But he didn’t.

    He wouldn’t let himself.

    It wasn’t his shop to throw things. Not his tool to break.

    He set down the hammer and stepped outside. The air was cool and brisk. It felt good. He was soaked in sweat and his shirt was dripping wet and covered in grease and metal shavings. It clung to him in the chill night.

    “Boy…” said a familiar, gravelly voice from the darkness of the house nearby.

    “Hagon. I thought you were asleep.”

    Hagon didn’t bother to respond. He stepped from the shadows of the house and into the weak light streaming from the open door of the shop. The mountain of a man was covered in scars and burns that were hard to make out in the dim light, but his shock of short white hair stood out like a beacon. His one good eye glowered at Tristan in the darkness.

    “Why are you still working, boy?”

    Tristan turned back to look at the open door to the shop. Why was he still awake? Why was he so focused on finishing that damned sword?

    He felt like his mind was racing yet little of it was a coherent thought. It was all just noise. A loudness in his mind that wouldn’t ebb. That made no sense and only worsened as he focused on it. His hands were trembling and his palms felt cold and clammy, like they’d been dipped in ice water.

    “I can’t get it right, Hagon.” He said, his voice cracking.

    Hagon stared at him quietly. Waiting. He was always waiting for something more.

    Tristan felt the anger and frustration boiling up inside him. Felt fresh sweat accumulating on his brow. He felt his heart start to hammer like he was running. Running for his life. Why was it pounding so hard? Pins and needles began to run down his fingertips and up his legs.

    “Every time I try, I mess it up.” Tristan said weakly, his eyes locked on the shop. “I keep messing it up.” He didn’t dare to look at Hagon. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!

    “Why?”

    Tristan felt like a hand was tightening around his throat. Like the weight of the question and his own incompetence were strangling him. He could feel his heart beating even harder and he found himself struggling to breathe through the pounding.

    “I DON’T KNOW!” Tristan snapped, trying to catch his breath.

    All at once, he felt as if his heart was trying to rip itself from his chest. He was gasping for air and he felt like the world was spinning around him. Tristan closed his eyes. It was all he could do to keep the world upright.

    All the while, Hagon watched him quietly.

    Finally, without saying a word, Hagon stepped into the workshop. He doused the flames and extinguished the candles. A few moments later, he stepped back out and pulled the doors shut, locking them as he did.

    “Enough.” He said gruffly. “Off to bed with you.”

    The words made no sense. Tristan found himself just staring at Hagon. Could he not see what was happening to him? Did he not care? Help me! He screamed inside. Make it stop! Why won’t you make it stop?! I’M DYING OLD MAN!

    Despite all this, no words came out.

    “Boy?” he asked, with just the slightest hint of concern.

    All at once, the world went black and Tristan felt his knees begin to buckle under him. The last thing he heard sounded like Hagon screaming his name.

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