Chapter Twenty-Eight: Blaine
I had no idea of what to do or where to go the moment I stumbled outside the long house. I stood uncertainly for a while in the cool evening air, half-expecting to hear laughter or voices behind me, but the smithy was unnaturally quiet. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for a sound to break this silence. There was no relief coming, though, and finally I sought my room in Brint's house. I thought to pack my things for the return trip, wishing the soldiers were already here to take me home. Given the chance I would have left immediately.
My worn, stained, singed clothes had been laundered and were neatly folded on the bed. I laid hold of one of the saddle bags and began to bundle the clothes inside, barely aware of what I was doing. My heart was hammering in my chest and I set my jaw against the painful tightness rising in my throat. I sniffed, pausing to wipe my eyes as my vision blurred slightly.
At last I gave up and sat down on the low pallet, holding my head in my hands. What had I done? I could only think my choice of song had, indeed, been completely wrong for reasons I could not define. I pressed my head hard into my palms, trying to counter the pain of the headache I felt growing behind my eyes. I wanted to understand. I wanted to cry. I wanted Peter. If my brother was here right now, I knew his arm would be around my shoulders and I'd be pulled close and warm into his ready embrace and he would not say a word if I gave way to tears. Somehow he always made things right, and I wondered how I had ever thought I could survive without him.
What had I done? How had I managed to move Brickit to tears and cause Gran such grief? Why had that song silenced everyone present? What did it mean to them? I went through the words in my head. It was a love song, a song of parting and hope and promise. I did not know who wrote the original, nor yet the melody, but I knew it was quite old. Why would it move them so?
I lowered my hands, staring at my discolored fingers and dirty nails without really seeing anything. I could not shake or explain the image of the Chief Smith bowed in misery and heartache. Had I undone all my hard work with one song? With a sigh I leaned against the wall, wishing I was home, wishing my brother was right beside me and not a two-day ride away. I leaned back in the corner, too miserable to even brace my head with the pillow, and I tried vainly not to think.
What had I done?
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"May I?"
I started, sucking in my breath as I roused from a stupor and squinted at the brightness suddenly filling my vision. Brint stood in the doorway to my chamber, the oil lamp in his hand casting a white glow. I had no idea of the time, but it was dark in the little cottage. I slid over to the edge of the bed, not getting up as I silently nodded for him to enter. I wasn't sure if I wanted any company outside of my family, but then like it or no, Brint was my family.
It had been a trying day. A trying week. I was paying the price for so much anxiety and labor and so little sleep. Brint looked very tired as well, I thought, as he set down the lamp on the table, and with a long sigh he sat close beside me and imitated my posture by leaning his elbows on his knees. We sat for a long time, and I felt worse with each passing moment.
"I'm sorry," I finally choked out. I didn't know what else to say. I gestured helplessly.
"It's not you, Edmund," he finally said in a subdued tone. "You're not at fault."
I didn't even look at him as he laid a warm hand upon my shoulder. It wasn't relief that I felt, just confusion. The master smith drew a deep breath and tried again. "That song you sang, Bid Me Not Farewell. Know you that was a poem before it was a song?"
I nodded. "So my music teacher told me. She said it was from the Fourth Century."
"Aye, written by a Black Dwarf named Blaytom. He was a warrior and a craftsman and one of the finest poets of his age. It's because of him that we Dwarfs never say good-bye, even to those who pass into Aslan's Country. We bid people a safe journey, and if we like them, we also tack on a wish for their safe return."
"A very Dwarfish thing to do," I mused.
"We don't do it often," he admitted, trying to make me smile. I obliged him a little. "We none of us knew it had been set to music, nor yet that a king would know of our ancient Clan poets, nor yet that our king should have so fine and clear a voice." Brint's hand squeezed my shoulder, bracing us both, and he got to the heart of the matter. "You know my brother was married."
"La."
"Blaine was from the Lantern Waste. Bright and beautiful was she, learned, wise, too valuable a pearl to be buried in the mud of the Blue River. She would have none less than Brickit for her husband, though, and he just a master then. He didn't just love her; he lived her. She was his earth, as we Dwarfs say." He swallowed. "Then Brickit was made Chief and within a month's span the Witch's Minotaur general came here demanding we make weapons for her army. Brickit refused, praise Aslan, against the wishes of some of our own masters."
"Would one of them be Barret?" I asked dully, already able to guess the answer.
Brint grimaced. "One would."
I sighed, quoting my rhetoric tutor, "Much is explained by that."
"Blaine was off visiting her family. She hadn't said a word to anyone but her mother, but she was with child. Their first. Just north of Aundroe, Ottman killed her along with her brother and cousin who were escorting her home, in order to punish Brickit for his refusal. To protect the Clan and his wife's people, Brickit gave in to their demands."
"Gran said he did a terrible job of it."
"Shameful, even, I'm proud to say, and they too stupid to ever think he might exact some revenge. So." Brint settled his stocky self a bit deeper in his stance. "So. Bid Me Not Farewell was Blaine's favorite poem. She quoted from it all the time, and since her loss it has not once been recited by any of this clan. The last thing she said to Brickit when she set out to the Waste was 'So kiss me now, bid me not farewell -'"
"Beg the Lion to bless my journey," I finished.
"He begged Aslan. He pleaded and he prayed when she didn't return. Finally we set out to search and found her . . ." Brint let out a mournful sigh. I knew he didn't want to tell me, but I also knew he wanted me to understand, to save both me and his brother from any more hurt.
"I thought he would die, as our younger brother had died. We were all born to the Winter, my brothers and me. We'd no notion of what seasons were. Up until then, we waited in hope that Aslan would come and deliver us from the cold and the White Witch. When he lost Blaine, and later learned he had lost a child as well, Brickit became angry. Bitter. Dark. There was an emptiness in him nothing could fill. He felt abandoned by Aslan, felt Narnia had been abandoned by Aslan, and he lost faith."
I bit my lip. I knew what it was like to be so lost. That I could understand all too well. I remembered my first impression of the Chief Smith when I barged in upon the smithy. I had sensed a deep, lingering pain in Brickit, and in my ignorance I had laid that pain open.
"And then in a mad rush Aslan returned and brought the spring and suddenly the Four Thrones were filled by obnoxious children who refuse to leave us alone. The High King sent us his only brother and you would not be put off or intimidated or shamed despite Brickit's best efforts." He smiled. "I have rarely been so pleased by anything as when you stood outside that coke oven and looked as if you wanted to murder my brother for making you clean it." A laugh escaped him at the memory, but he looked up at me in all seriousness. "You have no notion, Edmund Pevensie, of how greatly my brother needed you. Needs you. He almost wept when he told me about all you said and did in Lithin. If he didn't trust in your promise to return, he would never let you go."
I stared, his words rendering me speechless. While I had been needed in the past, it was always because of what I was, be it a Son of Adam, a brother, or a king. I realized then and there that Brickit, like Peter, needed me for who I was.
"He did not mean to hurt you, Edmund, any more than you meant to do anything but give us a song," Brint was saying. "He would never . . ." He paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Brickit was not prepared for you to know that poem, or to have it sung so beautifully."
"Where is he now?" I asked.
"In his shop. Probably making another battleaxe. It's what he does when he's upset."
Brint watched me closely, anxiously, and I wondered what it must have cost him to come here knowing that I, and not he, was what his only brother needed most. I wasn't sure that I would be able to do the same. I was still far too jealous of Peter's affections, and Aslan willing I would never have to find out. How could anyone ever call the Black Dwarfs cold and lacking in affection? They were guarded against strangers, yes, and suspicious, but beyond that barrier they were passionate and devoted to those they loved. There was such proof of that sitting beside me, and if the day ever dawned that I was faced by a similar situation, Aslan help me face it with the same dignity as Brint now displayed.
I stood up, feeling stiff and sore and tired. I shrugged off my fatigue and squared my shoulders.
"I'll go run coal for him."
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I could hear the savage pounding of metal on metal long before I reached the shop. The Chief Smith of the Blue River Smithy was working out his frustrations in the only way he knew how: by pitting his own strength against fire and steel. Despite the lateness of the hour many of the Dwarfs were not yet abed, lingering by their doors. The interruption of the celebration had upset them all, and clearly they were deeply concerned over Brickit. I sensed a wave of relief in my wake as I made my way through the compound. I entered the shop silently and went straight for the leather apron that was mine. It wasn't really necessary to wear the apron to shovel coal; I simply preferred to wear it. It was a different kind of armor.
Brickit noticed me as I was pulling on my gloves and he paused in mid-swing, staring at me in relief and regret and a whole torrent of emotions not easily expressed. I met his gaze steadily, knowing exactly what he felt. We each had hurt and been hurt and all of it was pointless because it was not meant, would never be meant.
Words were inadequate to the moment, and so I took up my shovel and got to work. We worked until dawn, with never a word needed between us.
