-Chapter 7- (The Old Kingdom - Riot of the Blood Kyo)
Still unused to the idea of sight, Fal bumped into several objects; walls, people, whatnot. His intention was to avoid Marle and Hana, because with the gift to see, he knew not whether Hana was beautiful. He did not want to fall for anyone, no matter who. With this in mind, he followed D and Lothair to the metalworks in the basement of the castle.
It was a dark room with several firepits, weapons hung on the walls, tools strewn madly about in the blackness.
With difficulty, Fal followed his brother and the knight to the firepit in the middle of the large space. There was a young man sitting to the side of it, rust smeared on his right cheek, and sweat dripping from his slightly-bearded chin. He was fine-looking, and reminded Fal of a blacksmith he had met many years ago who forged his old sword when he lived by the waterside near the south-west. The smith was no more than twenty-five when he was attacked by a mad Pirate. Only God knew whether he was alive or dead.
Those thoughts quickly left Fal's mind when he was given the task of introducing himself to the boy. Fal slightly shook his head.
"My name is Fal." He replied, careful not to tell him his name was really 'Willy', or anything of that nature.
The Blacksmith gave a light laugh.
"I remember you, Fal." He replied to a very confused and angry looking-man.
Lothair laughed loudly.
"You bloody moron!"
Fal was confused. "What is this about?"
Lothair took his hand and slapped it together with the blacksmith's.
"It's Turner! The smith from the west?"
Fal sharply turned his head to the boy. "I thought you were killed by a Pirate!"
The boy shook his hand. "No, sir!" His thick british accent washed over his speech and he looked quite guilty, speaking with quiet words unmolested by other's judgement.
"...Fought with one of my own swords. So I hear that the one I gave you so long ago was mal-treated." A look of 'I'm sorry' spilled unto the young-man's face.
Fal's face very slightly twisted in an emotion very similar to anger as it does many times.
"So please tell me why I'm here." He released his grip from the boy's hand.
Turner blinked irratically and swallowed, looking down at his handiwork. "I started making a sword for you again..."
Fal bent over the black anvil, inspecting the weapon prepared
It was an in-work Scimitar; a sword with a broad curved blade, its edge running none-too-smoothly along the outside arch. It's hilt was very plain, not extravagent in any subtle way at all.
"So what do you think?" The smith asked.
Fal crinkled his nose in disgust. "It looks like a flattened banana. But I'd have to use it in order to give a final appraisal."
Turner forced a sad and tired smile. He nodded and turned back to the sword, raised his hammer and struck the blade's edge, giving it more of a shape.
Fal turned to leave, but was stopped by Lothair grabbing his arm.
"Ey, brother. Why don't ya' give the sword a name?"
Fal turned back around. "Name?"
Lothair nodded, his shaggy red hair frothing back and forth.
"Ya' name yer' blade, don't ya'?" He asked.
Fal hummed an unsure grumble. "Certainly, but I've only owned one real sword in my life, and now it's broken in two."
"What'd you call it?"
"My sword..." He recalled the chipped, blunt, rusted flank of metal in a black pigskin sheath. "...was called Sarabande."
Lothair clapped his hands together. "Great! Well enough, name yer' new one!"
Fal shrugged. His mind raced through names, none of them seemed appropriate. He put the back of his fingers against the ridge of his throat and thought more.
"I'm not sure."
Lothair jerked the top half his body back. "Ya' gotta' be kidding me! Well your first one was called 'Sarabande', so maybe something like that?"
Turning his head to the side and inward, Fal scraped the back of his head for ideas.
"How about... Fandango?"
Lothair clapped again. "Creative! I knew you could do it!"
"Alright then, I'll be going." Fal turned about and coughed, then left.
Having a new sword really didn't concern Fal much as he walked back up the stairs of the basement to the main floor. He was no longer going to fight monsters in Marle's room, nor was he about to fight in any war. He really didn't need one, and as he thought about it, it became more and more apparent to him.
He passed a corner in the main hallway, and bumped into someone.
"Sorry." he lied.
"Aw, I know you're not sorry." A familliar sultry voice poured to his ears.
Fal's eyes widened as he slowly drew his face toward the sound.
There standing in front of him was a woman, about as tall as he, long black hair, and weilding a build not unlike his own. Her nose and lips here small, and very pretty. Violet eyes that would reflect any kind soul were hers, and she stared at him with a honey-sweet smile.
"Hana!" Fal creaked. He recognized her from the not-so-in-depth description. Of course, this was more like a guess.
The woman grinned and put her head to the side.
"Yup. So you got your sight back."
"I was hit in the--"
"I know. I half-came up with the idea."
Fal croaked in shock. She musn't really care about him that much. But why was he thinking that way anyway?
"What are you doing here?" He shrugged his disgust back on.
Hana giggled. "Looking for you. Wouldn't want you lost, now."
Fal gave an expression of repugnance. He cast her aside and walked on his way to the main hall.
She caught up with him and tugged at his arm.
"Hey Fal, tell me your real name, will you?"
Fal gave a wide-eyed and angry glance, his bottom jaw protruding an inch from his top, which caused his lower lip to pout.
"No."
Hana waved a hand in front of her face. "I already know it. Marle told me. I just wanted to know if you'd trust me with any of your secrets."
Fal just ignored her.
"Anyway, if you won't trust me with even your name, I won't bother you anymore." Hana simply put.
Fal relaxed, and kept walking. "Good."
Still unused to the idea of sight, Fal bumped into several objects; walls, people, whatnot. His intention was to avoid Marle and Hana, because with the gift to see, he knew not whether Hana was beautiful. He did not want to fall for anyone, no matter who. With this in mind, he followed D and Lothair to the metalworks in the basement of the castle.
It was a dark room with several firepits, weapons hung on the walls, tools strewn madly about in the blackness.
With difficulty, Fal followed his brother and the knight to the firepit in the middle of the large space. There was a young man sitting to the side of it, rust smeared on his right cheek, and sweat dripping from his slightly-bearded chin. He was fine-looking, and reminded Fal of a blacksmith he had met many years ago who forged his old sword when he lived by the waterside near the south-west. The smith was no more than twenty-five when he was attacked by a mad Pirate. Only God knew whether he was alive or dead.
Those thoughts quickly left Fal's mind when he was given the task of introducing himself to the boy. Fal slightly shook his head.
"My name is Fal." He replied, careful not to tell him his name was really 'Willy', or anything of that nature.
The Blacksmith gave a light laugh.
"I remember you, Fal." He replied to a very confused and angry looking-man.
Lothair laughed loudly.
"You bloody moron!"
Fal was confused. "What is this about?"
Lothair took his hand and slapped it together with the blacksmith's.
"It's Turner! The smith from the west?"
Fal sharply turned his head to the boy. "I thought you were killed by a Pirate!"
The boy shook his hand. "No, sir!" His thick british accent washed over his speech and he looked quite guilty, speaking with quiet words unmolested by other's judgement.
"...Fought with one of my own swords. So I hear that the one I gave you so long ago was mal-treated." A look of 'I'm sorry' spilled unto the young-man's face.
Fal's face very slightly twisted in an emotion very similar to anger as it does many times.
"So please tell me why I'm here." He released his grip from the boy's hand.
Turner blinked irratically and swallowed, looking down at his handiwork. "I started making a sword for you again..."
Fal bent over the black anvil, inspecting the weapon prepared
It was an in-work Scimitar; a sword with a broad curved blade, its edge running none-too-smoothly along the outside arch. It's hilt was very plain, not extravagent in any subtle way at all.
"So what do you think?" The smith asked.
Fal crinkled his nose in disgust. "It looks like a flattened banana. But I'd have to use it in order to give a final appraisal."
Turner forced a sad and tired smile. He nodded and turned back to the sword, raised his hammer and struck the blade's edge, giving it more of a shape.
Fal turned to leave, but was stopped by Lothair grabbing his arm.
"Ey, brother. Why don't ya' give the sword a name?"
Fal turned back around. "Name?"
Lothair nodded, his shaggy red hair frothing back and forth.
"Ya' name yer' blade, don't ya'?" He asked.
Fal hummed an unsure grumble. "Certainly, but I've only owned one real sword in my life, and now it's broken in two."
"What'd you call it?"
"My sword..." He recalled the chipped, blunt, rusted flank of metal in a black pigskin sheath. "...was called Sarabande."
Lothair clapped his hands together. "Great! Well enough, name yer' new one!"
Fal shrugged. His mind raced through names, none of them seemed appropriate. He put the back of his fingers against the ridge of his throat and thought more.
"I'm not sure."
Lothair jerked the top half his body back. "Ya' gotta' be kidding me! Well your first one was called 'Sarabande', so maybe something like that?"
Turning his head to the side and inward, Fal scraped the back of his head for ideas.
"How about... Fandango?"
Lothair clapped again. "Creative! I knew you could do it!"
"Alright then, I'll be going." Fal turned about and coughed, then left.
Having a new sword really didn't concern Fal much as he walked back up the stairs of the basement to the main floor. He was no longer going to fight monsters in Marle's room, nor was he about to fight in any war. He really didn't need one, and as he thought about it, it became more and more apparent to him.
He passed a corner in the main hallway, and bumped into someone.
"Sorry." he lied.
"Aw, I know you're not sorry." A familliar sultry voice poured to his ears.
Fal's eyes widened as he slowly drew his face toward the sound.
There standing in front of him was a woman, about as tall as he, long black hair, and weilding a build not unlike his own. Her nose and lips here small, and very pretty. Violet eyes that would reflect any kind soul were hers, and she stared at him with a honey-sweet smile.
"Hana!" Fal creaked. He recognized her from the not-so-in-depth description. Of course, this was more like a guess.
The woman grinned and put her head to the side.
"Yup. So you got your sight back."
"I was hit in the--"
"I know. I half-came up with the idea."
Fal croaked in shock. She musn't really care about him that much. But why was he thinking that way anyway?
"What are you doing here?" He shrugged his disgust back on.
Hana giggled. "Looking for you. Wouldn't want you lost, now."
Fal gave an expression of repugnance. He cast her aside and walked on his way to the main hall.
She caught up with him and tugged at his arm.
"Hey Fal, tell me your real name, will you?"
Fal gave a wide-eyed and angry glance, his bottom jaw protruding an inch from his top, which caused his lower lip to pout.
"No."
Hana waved a hand in front of her face. "I already know it. Marle told me. I just wanted to know if you'd trust me with any of your secrets."
Fal just ignored her.
"Anyway, if you won't trust me with even your name, I won't bother you anymore." Hana simply put.
Fal relaxed, and kept walking. "Good."