Title: At the Hands of the Priestess
Author: S J Smith
Rating: Gen
Summary: This is a house where metal rules.
Disclaimer: Oh, please, I own nothing.
Note: Written for the LJ community, HelptheSouth, with Jordanna Morgan winning the auction and prompting me for a story from the POV of Winry's wrench. Thanks to D. M. Evans for her help with this story!
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The house is quiet now, in the early morning. That's not always the case. There is often noise - the telephone ringing, the dog barking, the rooster crowing at all hours of the day. He should be starting up again soon, truthfully. People talking, yelling at each other, hollering across the way. The other dogs barking as they herd the sheep, and the sheep make their own noises, too. Sometimes the jingle of a horse's harness, the animal snorting as it pulled a creaking wagon along the road at the bottom of the hill. Birds will be waking soon, starting their serenades of 'My tree! My tree!' that humans seem to think are sweet songs of entertainment. There will be the whirr and buzz of machines, the sound of metal being ground down, the accompanying grunts as it is bent to the proper form, the soft, sweet scrape of a bolt joining one piece of metal to another, the short, explosive "paaah!" noise as the soldering or welding flame ignites, then the low roar as it works to join metals together in a completely different way.
This is a house where metal rules. Smelly sheep with their oily wool and strange, flat eyes are rarely discussed within these walls, except maybe during lambing season, when everyone in the town is on the lookout for the ewes and their babies. Metal is the driving force within these walls, and its priestesses number two; the elder one, who blesses the metal she works with the sweet scent of tobacco, and the younger one, who offers more through the sweat of her brow and her desire to make perfection out of every slab of inert steel that crosses her work bench.
The younger one has made me her chief helper. Her fingers curl around my shaft, run along my body regularly. She carries me with her, even when I'm not necessary for her trips. I think she enjoys my company.
Now I am nestled in her bed, tucked partially beneath her pillow. Her breath warms me as she sleeps, though I can tell she will be waking soon. She sleeps restlessly throughout much of the night and it is only in the early morning hours she slips into deep dreams. Sometimes, her face turns down, other times, she frowns in her sleep. She speaks words I do not understand while she dozes, words like 'mawm, dahd.' I do not know what these words signify, or why, when she says them in her sleep, her mornings don't seem to be as cheerful as other days. But humans are curious creatures. Completely mobile, sometimes foolish, though my young priestess seems to know a bit more than some of the others I've had chance to observe. She treats metal with respect, maybe even love.
I've had the chance to observe other humans with metal; plow shares and scythes, and sometimes threshers and the shears used to remove pelts from sheep. I've seen how humans handle knives and my own brethren, tools. My young priestess handles her metals with care. She wipes us down after using us, and, for those of us with moving parts, makes sure to add a drop of oil to our mechanisms when we need them. She sharpens blades that need it, replaces worn parts. She is considerate of our needs.
There are others who are not.
My priestess opens her eyes, her hand brushing over me as she sits up in her bedding. She stretches her arms overhead, arching her back, smiling slightly. How amazing their features are, humans. She removes her outer layer - my priestess has various draperies she wears, depending on what she is doing on a given day - and replaces them with the heavy canvas fabric that lets me know she's going to use me today. She will be calling on her skills, given to her by the great Forge, to weld metal to her will. Grabbing me from my resting place, she tucks me into a pocket to ride down the stairs and into the human meeting room, where they replenish themselves. The older priestess is already there, I can hear her mumbling.
"Morning, girl."
"Morning, Granny! I thought I'd try to finish up that arm for Mrs. Coyle this morning, and if it's still nice this afternoon, I'd go pick some blackberries," my young priestess answers.
"Blackberries...a cobbler would be nice."
"Mm! If I get enough, maybe I can trade the Nedobecks for some fresh cream to top it off."
"That's a good idea. Are you sure you don't want to go now?"
"Are you hungry for those berries already, Granny?"
"My sweet tooth is acting up." The old priestess makes a sharp sound that expresses humor amongst their kind, and the young priestess did, too.
The noise diverts my attention from them. I can't really understand their language anyway, if that's what it could be called, 'language', but I could understand something is approaching from outside their temple. I can hear it, the sound of metal sliding, plate over plate. I recognize that sound, and what it means for my young priestess.
A knock came, and she rises to her feet as her dog - also adorned with metal - moves far more quickly than she did to reach the door first. The young priestess's fingers came down to caress me and take a tight grip on my shaft, then, just as abruptly, she withdraws her hand. I hear the brass doorknob sigh as she presses against it, giving it a twist to open the door.
"Ed! Al!" What are you guys... Suddenly, she grips me, pulling me from her pocket and brandishing me over her head! What did you guys do?"
It is amazing, as always, at the sight of such an extravagant use of metal, but this steel doesn't speak to the rest of us. It's as if it's possessed, and doesn't realize our existence. It moves under its own propulsion; I can see that much, and there doesn't appear to be any power source to make it move. The priestess calls it "ahl, and it usually answers her with a high-pitched shriek. The other is only human, though my priestess has adorned it with metal limbs, such as she makes for other worthy candidates, though none, as of yet, have shown any of the interest in metal that my priestess has.
This young male human is no exception to the rule, and cowers before my priestess. I can see why - he has again damaged one of his limbs, the lower part of one dangling from a rope around his shoulders. "It's not our fault, Winry!"
"You destroyed my automail!"
"It wasn't me, I promise! Well, I mean." He shows so many teeth in his head, and rubs the back of his skull with his paltry flesh hand. "If it hadn't been for your magnificent work, I could've really been hurt?"
My priestess trembles in fury, and I brace myself for what I know will happen next.
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