Chapter 8: The Journey of Wayland and Brigid
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
The hammer was vast, as large as a mountain, and the anvil it collided against, even more so.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
With every strike, the earth shook, but not in a terrifying manner. With every strike, the sparks flew up into the endless expanse above them.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
His eyes followed each blow of the hammer, held in a great and mighty hand.
Remember, came the great and mighty voice, ageless and powerful.
Slowly, he looked upwards…
With a small gasp, Wayland woke up.
Most nights, it was the same thing, whenever Wayland lay down to sleep; a great hammer, banging rhythmically against a massive anvil. Every strike of the hammer brought forth a shower of sparks, and they became stars.
Every time, he would try to look up towards the hammer's owner… and then he would awake.
It was the same with Brigid.
Of course, they never spoke of it to anyone. It was their little secret, a thing between brother and sister.
Besides, life was difficult enough without wondering if you were mad, especially when you and your sister both worked as blacksmiths.
"Wayland?"
Wayland ran a hand through his hair and turned his head to look at his sister.
"Are you alright?" Brigid asked him, as she dragged herself away from her spot on the floor where they both slept.
"Aye," Wayland said, as he rose and stretched. "I'm fine."
She cocked her head up at him, and then shrugged, before dragging herself across the floor. "Good, because it's past time we were up and about. Can't spend all day abed, after all."
"Aye, I suppose not."
The man who had been married to their mother had never been a kind man. That had always seemed a bit odd to Wayland when he was little because it seemed like he was married to all the other ladies in the inn where they lived. Though, maybe they were also married to the other men who took them behind the red doors, like mother.
Wayland could never truly recall the brute's face. Instead, he could recall almost everything about his fists, as well as the flat and back of his hand. He saw them, often enough.
Sometimes, the bruises took a great deal of time to go away.
But at least anytime the man was hitting him, he left Brigid alone. He never liked it, when the man looked at Brigid.
Most days, though, the man ignored them, and spent most of his time down at one of the inns, drinking and gambling and such, or with mother or one of the other ladies behind the red door.
So, Wayland and Brigid were oft left to themselves, since mother did not want them in the inn when she took men behind the red door.
The pair could often be seen wandering about the town; big Wayland, taller than the other boys, carrying crippled Brigid on his back, or, when she so demanded, letting her pull herself along on the ground.
"Crawler," was one name that many of the other children in the town taunted her with. "Worm" was another. Wayland and Brigid learned early to just ignore them. He never understood why they were so cruel. It was not her fault that her legs were twisted.
He did his best to protect her, especially when they threw things at her and him, but she was strong too. it was funny when she punched that one boy between his legs when he got too close. As the old smith said, all the crawling made Brigid as strong as an ox. Wayland had then thrown the boy away and chased off the others. After that, the children mostly left them alone, only mocking them from afar.
Then, the brute heard about it, and Wayland could not see out of one eye for a week.
Often, both of them were mocked and jeered at by the men and women of the town as bastards. With their black hair and blue eyes, it was something of an open secret as to what house their sire belonged to. Not that he or Brigid ever really met any Baratheon.
Sometimes though, Wayland had scant memories of a tall man, with a bull's chest, dark hair, blue eyes, and a booming laugh. Sometimes, he and mother would go behind the red door, and mother would then laugh and scream and groan, often for a long time.
Most days, when they wandered about, Wayland and Brigid felt drawn to the smithy. The smith who ran it had skin as black as night, arms as large as barrels, and long, strange hair; black with streaks of red and white-grey.
Of course, the thing that Wayland remembered the most about the old smith was his kindness. He would let them sit in the smithy for as long as they wanted, watching him work as he beat metal into various shapes, and watching the sparks fly into the air like little arrows of light. He was one of the few that was never horrid to Brigid, either.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
But the smith could not always be around. As he explained to Wayland and Brigid, he also worked at tourneys, so he had to travel, on his great wagon with his horse and tools and such.
So, when he was not there, and when they had no desire to wander about the town, Wayland and Brigid would go and visit the lady, the one dressed in green who lived up in the trees, in the Rainwood.
She was rather tall, though she carried an equally tall staff of pale wood, with hair as white as snow, and eyes as blue as his and Brigid's. Like the old smith, she was always so very kind to them. Though, Brigid once told Wayland that the woman always seemed a bit sad.
She treated Wayland's bruises and beatings, as well as any cuts on Brigid's legs she got from dragging herself across the ground; she let them stay at her strange house in the trees as long as they wanted; she fed them tasty food, and even taught him and Brigid how to read, write, and count.
Most of all, she told them stories. Most of them seemed familiar and yet… different.
Long ago, in the days when the world was young, the raging sea and the calm tide fell in love, and from that love was born a daughter.
As the first of her kind to have been born in loving unions, all doted upon her, and all and everything whispered to her their knowledge and secrets. As such, she became greatly knowledgeable in many arts and ideas and fields, from the workings of metal to the crafting of castles and crops and plumbing the ocean's depths.
In addition, she was also imbued with the beauty of the ocean depths, the power of the hurricane and the maelstrom, and the restless wanderlust of the tides and the winds.
Thus, she wandered, all over the world as it came into being. She swam in the domains of her mother and father, flew through the air, and strode over the land. As she wandered, she made friends and companions of the whales and the kingfishers and the eagles and the dolphin and the stags and the lions and the wolves, and all that lived of the sea and in the air and on the land. All in turn loved her.
Then, one day, while she rested beneath the surface of the water after a long bit of traveling, she met a man, and in the oddest way.
It was here that the lady's eyes would always glaze over with mirthful recollection and melancholy.
He had no knowledge of who she was. All he saw was a woman, sleeping beneath the waves, still and motionless. As such, he thought her drowning, and so he dived in to save her.
He reached out to grab her and breathe life into her lungs. As ill-luck would have it, he just so happened to grab at her breast as he attempted the kiss of life.
At that very moment, she awakened in a most unexpected way.
The man's surprise was great when the 'drowning woman' promptly sent him flying back out onto the surface in her scandalized shock.
Still, after the shock had worn off and all the fluster and rapid cries of apology had died down, she examined this strange man, who had tried to save her without thinking. Tall he was, taller than most, and with intelligent eyes.
To her surprise, the first thing he did after regaining his wits was to ask if she was alright. He then followed that with plenty of apologies for disturbing her, as well as everything else.
Intrigued, she asked the man his name, and he answered. "I am Durran, Durran of Galladon. I do apologize for my error, good lady. May I enquire as to your name, so that I may give a proper apology?"
In turn, she gave her reply. "It is quite alright, good man. I realize that you meant no intentional disrespect. I am called Elenei."
Elenei had seen the race of man before, from its sailors to its mountain climbers and its hunters and such. But she had never truly interacted with them, for they always became too feared and too awed to ever truly approach her., Instead, they often fell to their knees in supplication and unwanted worship.
But this one? He had not seemed afraid of her or overly awed.
Instead, he had thought her in peril and had rushed to save her, foolish as that thought might have been.
After talking for a good while, Durran of Galladon respectfully bid her farewell.
Intrigued, she deigned to follow him.
Like her, he was a wandering sort, with no true home. In his words, he followed wherever storm and whimsy took him.
Together, the two embarked on many travels across the land and sea and had many adventures. For instance, many times over has their encounter with the first kraken been told and retold, as have their assisting Uther of the Hightower in settling his feud with Argos Stone-skin, the Grey Giant, their misadventures with Florys the Fox and Gilbert of the Vines, and their battle against a few dragons. Then, of course, there was also their pursual of the elusive White Stag, as well as Durran's fated duel against Brandon of the Bloody Blade, enacted so as to stop the madman's wanton slaughter, which earned him and Elenei the enmity of Brandon's own father, the Greenhand himself, for many years.
Throughout all these many adventures, Elenei felt herself growing closer and closer to this noble figure, who preferred words to weapons and compromise to conflict.
Eventually, the pair fell in love.
Returning to the area where they had first met, the pair pledged endless devotion to the other and planned to marry.
"And then the sea and wind grew angry with them, right?" Brigid had interrupted, the first time they heard the tale.
The Lady looked at her in askance. "Whyever would you think that, little one?"
"Because that's how everyone says it happens. The gods of the Sea and the wind hated that their daughter had fallen in love with a mortal. So, at the wedding feast, the Sea and the Wind sent great storms to punish them, killing all of Durran's friends and family and wedding guests," Brigid had explained.
"Yeah, and then whenever Durran built a new castle, they kept destroying it, until he finally built Storm's End with Elenei's help, and beat back the god's wrath and anger. That's why he was called God's Grief, right?" Wayland added.
The Lady had looked at them for a long moment and then chuckled. "I will admit, that does make a more dashing and heroic story, but, like all stories, there is more than one version, as you can no doubt tell."
"So then, what happened in your story?" Brigid asked.
The old woman took a deep breath and sighed.
The Wind and the Sea gathered before their daughter and her love and took the measure of him themselves.
Though lesser than their daughter, they could find little fault with the one she had chosen to love.
With the blessings of the winds and the tides, Durran and Elenei were wed, in a ceremony witnessed and accompanied by friends, family, the sea, the wind, and the White Stag itself, which Durran and Elenei would take as the sigil of their new house.
Their love was strong and mighty and would prosper and continue unabated for many years.
But, like any true love, it would come with a price.
"What price?" Brigid had then asked.
The Lady had looked at Wayland and Brigid quietly and then gave them a small smile.
"That, my little ones… is a story for another time."
Yet, no matter how many stories she told them after, the Lady never told them the price that Durran and Elenei had to pay for their love. Nor did she tell them why he was given the name 'Godsgrief.'
But she told them many other stories, nonetheless.
They never pressed the issue.
The days slowly passed, and Wayland and Brigid slowly grew and slowly lived, weathering jeers and taunts and the man's fists and blandishments. Still, they had the lady, the smith, and their mother, when she was not behind the red door.
Their days were filled with sparks, wandering about, and stories of heroes and monsters and gods and kings.
Life was… bearable if nothing else.
Then, mother died.
She had been poorly for a while. One of the other women at the inn had called it 'something that men carry, but that whores always get.'
Wayland and Brigid watched for six days as their mother wasted away.
She still was made to go behind the red door, but not as much as she used to.
On the seventh day, she passed in her sleep.
The funeral was attended by a few people, and the sky was clear. Wasn't it supposed to rain when your mother died, when she was buried and sent to the Seven Heavens?
Wayland and Brigid cried softly throughout the funeral, though the village Septon had few words to really say about her… even though he had sometimes gone with her behind the red door.
That night, the innkeeper came into their room.
Wayland remembered it well, that night; how the brute had loomed in the doorway like a hill of flab and malice.
"The whore that was your mother is dead, little bastards. That puts a fucking hole in my profits. That cannot be allowed."
He took a step in, the motion making his belly jiggle grotesquely. "My generosity has run thin. It's time the pair of you start earning your keep."
As he spoke, a predatory gleam entered his piggish eyes. "There are those willing to fuck a cripple like yourself, little worm," the man growled to Brigid. "They may even like the fact that you can't feel anything below your waist. Matter of fact… I have a customer waiting downstairs. Even paid me 10 gold dragons, on account of you being a maiden still."
He took another step forward. Wayland immediately stepped in front of his sister.
The next thing he saw was the floor, as he tumbled to the ground.
The next thing he heard through the dazed aftermath of the innkeeper's blow was his sister, screaming as she tried to fight off the innkeeper as he started to drag her towards the door.
At that moment, it was as if someone else was working Wayland's body; as if someone else got to their feet, picked up the room's chair, and smashed it against the innkeeper's fat head and back. The man went down with a grunt of pain.
It was then as if someone else had picked up Brigid, and ran out the room, jumping from the second floor to the ground, truing around so that it was his back that it, and not Brigid.
Everything hurt when Wayland landed on the ground, Brigid held in his arms. But, despite the pain, he started to run. He knew that the innkeeper would follow them before too long.
Wayland ran into the darkened town, towns the closest and safest place that he knew. He could only pray that the smith was home.
He saw a light in the smithy's window, and the smith was unloading his cart.
"Help us! Help us, please!" Wayland cried out, making the smith look up from his task
The smith looked over Wayland and his sister, his eyes drinking in their weary forms. "Get inside."
He ushered them in and then locked the door. Without the flames of the forge, the interior of the smithy seemed empty and cold.
The smith listened to Wayland and Brigid as they told him all that happened. As he listened, he cooked up for them a hearty stew.
"That was a brave thing you did," he told Wayland as he ate. "Not many grown men would have done the same, I can tell you that."
"But he's going to come for us! He has a lot of cronies!"
"Don't you worry your little heads about that," the smith said. "Now, after you two finish eating, you should sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."
Sleep did not come easy, but there were no nightmares. Just the anvil, the hammer, and the sparks that became stars.
This time, he could see that the hammer was beating a piece of metal into something, but he could not make it out.
Remember
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
He doubted he could ever forget.
The next morning, the innkeeper came howling for blood. And he was not alone.
"Come out, you little fucks!" the innkeeper bellowed, so loudly that one could but hear the spittle flying frim his piggish jowls. He was accompanied by a small mob of thugs and townsfolk, eager for some entertainment. "I know you're in there, you little shits!"
Wayland and Brigid watched fearfully from the window as the smith walked out the front door. He held in his hands a hammer and iron, the tip of which still glowed brightly from the forge.
"Can I help you with something?" the smith asked.
"I know those little brats are hiding in your smithy, you miserable metal-beater! They attacked me for no reason, and after all that I've done for them and their whore mother! Hand them over, so that I may have what I'm owed!"
In response, the smith spat at the innkeeper's feet and brandished his hammer at him and his cronies. "Jak Pecker. I name you as a pimp and whoremonger and rapist and liar! By the blood in my veins, you will not touch these children!"
At the mention of his name, the innkeeper's red face grew redder still. "Fuck you, you metal beater! Those children are my property, just as their mother and all the ladies at my establishment are! Those two will help me recoup the coin that their dead sow of a mother now costs me with her absence and death! So, hand them over, fucker!"
The smith's eyes narrowed. "No."
"Fuck you then. Kill him, boys, then bring me the little bastards. Especially the girl. I want her ready. The client is still waiting."
The large group of men inched forward, hefting their clubs and axes and knives. A few even held swords, their edges glinting in the sun.
In turn, the smith hefted up the hot iron and his hammer.
Wayland had never seen someone move so fast in that moment.
The smith held the iron as one would a sword; he parried and slashed and cut, while the hammer bludgeoned and crunched.
Crunch. Crunch. Smash. Clang. Squelch.
It was him against ten men.
The ten men never stood a chance, and all soon lay upon the ground groaning or prone. Thus, only the smith and the innkeeper were left standing.
The smith took a step forward, and the fat man all but fell to the ground crawling backward, fear plastered on his piggish face. Soon enough, the smith loomed over the cowering man.
Wayland and Brigid could not look away from it. Perhaps a part of them did not want to
The smith held the heated tip of the iron under the innkeeper's frightened and sweating face, near his wide left eye. "I've always despised violence. I despise what it is, and what it does to folk, what it makes them do to each other and themselves. If men and women could focus more on words and ideas than weapons and armor and wars, then mayhaps this world would be something of a lighter place. A better and happier place."
His face grew dark, and the smith's anger at that moment felt a palpable thing, like a storm. "Yet it is not. The world is, by and large, a terrible and horrible and selfish place. It is all of that, and it is because of things like you. I've seen your kind before; Those that rape and bully and beat and murder any whom you can, any who are weaker than you. Violence? It is the only language a pig like you is ever willing to understand."
Though he kept his eyes on the innkeeper, he then addressed the crowd of townsfolk around them. "And you lot! You who stood by and were content to do nothing! Hoping to see a bit of violence, were you!? Mayhaps you were hoping to see a poor, defenseless man torn apart by this pig and his hangers-on, right? All of you, who taunted and jeered at those children, who did nothing to help them, nor show them any kindness!? Is that what you were hoping to see!? Well, now you have. You have all seen a good little bit of violence. Do you all feel sated now? Are you all entertained!?"
None dared to look at him, though he was not looking at them. Indeed, they all seemed cowed, like children before a stern and disappointed parent. Then the crowd slowly began to disperse.
He inched the hot iron closer to the innkeeper's porcine face. "And what about you, little piggy? Are you entertained? Is your bloodlust sated? Are you're loins about to burst from excitement."
"Please, please. Don't hurt me! Please!" the innkeeper cried out.
In lieu of a reply, the smith withdrew the iron. Then, he swiftly knelt, held down the innkeeper with one large hand, and pressed the hot iron right into his piggish face.
The air was soon filled with the sound of roasting flesh, and the squealing screams of the innkeeper as he futilely struggled about, his legs kicking up and thrashing.
A moment later, he withdrew the iron with a wet squelch. The smith then rose and delivered to the moaning man a swift kick to his side.
"You will bear that mark upon your face for all your days, Jak Pecker. No good folk will help you; all will know you for the deformed thing that you've always been. Now go, leave, and never return! Next time, I will not be so merciful!"
He gave the sobbing man one more kick, and then turned and strode back to the smithy.
Wayland and Brigid never once looked away.
Nobody in the town ever bothered or jeered at Wayland and Brigid again.
After the smith ran off the innkeeper and his cronies, he began to teach Wayland and Brigid the art of blacksmithing. He taught them everything; from knowing how much coal and coke to heat the forge with; intuiting where exactly on the metal to strike; and, of course, having the awareness of knowing that you were finished. All that, alongside shaping, smelting, welding, heat-treating, finishing, and many others.
To the man's surprise, Wayland and his sister took to it like a fish to water. To them, forging soon became as breathing; natural.
As they worked and learned, and the days passed, the pair got stronger. Wayland was not ashamed to admit that Brigid was stronger than him.
The days passed, and they learned and crafted and smelt and forged.
The old smith even took Wayland and Brigid with him when he traveled to tourneys for work. Their pavilion was always full of customers and knights looking for good armor and repairs, though it was as much for their quality work as it was for the sight of a woman with tightly-bound legs hammering away at the metal, or dragging herself about the ground.
They never stared at her for long though. Nor did they jeer for long, especially once Brigid demonstrated her ability to bend an iron bar with her bare hands. That actually netted her a few admirers, especially in arm-wrestling matches.
But it was the quality that netted them many upon many customers.
Quality over quantity.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
As the days turned to weeks and months and years, Wayland and Brigid remained content and happy with the smith in their town and their travels.
Every day, they learned, forged iron, read, wrote, and even learned to swim.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
At night, Wayland and Brigid watched sparks turn into stars.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Remember
Outside their town, the land changed. The Elves, the people from up north, started making great roads. There was even talk of creatures called dwarves that had been discovered and were in talks with the king. But, in the town, things stay pretty much the same. Except for the fact that nobody jeered at him or Brigid anymore.
Still, their smithing had begun to garner fame outside of the Stormlands and tourney circuit.
At one such event, they were approached by a knight of House Velaryon, who asked them to forge for the heir's forthcoming royal wedding a suit of armor and a usable sword.
It had been a rather hefty commission. But, the smith, Wayland, and Brigid had felt supremely satisfied with the results of their work.
That had been a good day. There had truly been a great many good days.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
The day had started like any other. Wayland, Brigid, and the Smith rose up early.
Of course, there was little to do that day, save for the creation of horseshoes and knives.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Through it all, the smith had a thoughtful look upon his face, mostly as he watched Wayland and Brigid work. He had said very little at breakfast; at least, less than the small amount that he usually did. In other words, he said nothing at all.
Around lunchtime, he spoke. "I have been thinking that perhaps… you two should seek broader horizons. Perhaps you should leave this village."
Brigid nearly choked on her sip of water when he said that. "Wh-what? Why?"
"You two are supremely talented," the smith replied. "Your skills have grown, but you have learned all that I can teach you. You still have room to grow and prosper and learn…. And you won't be able to do so here, in this little town, or in the Stormlands."
"But… where will we go?' Wayland asked.
"North," the smith said, without fanfare. "The elves have allowed the king to commission trading colonies there. You can learn from them, the elves. They are said to be masters in many craft. You can flourish there. But not here."
Wayland suddenly felt a loss of appetite and pushed aside his bowl. Brigid did the same.
The smith looked at them and sighed. "It would be best if you left in the next few days. Take the road to Summertown. You can get passage on one of the Swann ships. I have enough coin to help you pay for the journey.
He said nothing more of it for the rest of the day. Though, he allowed them the rest of the day to pack, as well as hammer out a few bits of sheet metal.
They often did that, to keep themselves centered.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
The rest of the day passed slowly, almost mournfully. Neither Wayland nor Brigid had felt like arguing. Part of them did not want to leave… but they recognized that the smith was right.
For a while… the town did not really feel as he supposed a home was supposed to feel. In addition, the dreams had started to become more intense.
Remember
As the sun set below the sky, and the town began to settle down for the evening, Wayland and Brigid felt unable to sleep.
So, as in the old times, Wayland carried her about the darkened town. Through the buildings and shops and houses and inns. So much had changed in ten years, even as so much also stayed the same.
They nodded to the night watchman as he went about his rounds, the symbol of House Whitehead emblazoned on his breastplate.
After a bit, Wayland set Brigid down, and the pair of them sat on the cobblestones.
"We could argue with him," Brigid said. "We are grown, after all, and he's not getting any younger."
She then trailed off as she looked at Wayland.
"But he's right," he answered. "We can't stay here anymore."
They looked about at the town where they had lived. Even in the depths of shadow and torchlight, it seemed so… small.
Wayland looked up. The stars were shining brightly, though they were the only illumination in the night sky. Like small dots of firelight.
Wait… why were some of them growing?
As the first of the flaming arrows collided into the star and wooden roofs, Wayland grabbed Brigid and ran breakneck back to the forge.
Around them, the buildings caught fire, and the screams began to fill the flaming air.
Wayland and Brigid had heard those screams rarely, at the tourneys and melees. But never before had they heard it in such volume before.
Madness walked the streets; armored men killing and burning and raping.
There was another sound filling the air amidst the flames and the screams; laughter. They were laughing as they pillaged the town; laughing as they killed and slaughtered and raped.
He kept running. He kept running, back to the smithy.
The smith was already busy, a few dead bodies around the smithy, while his blood-stained hammer was slung through his apron belt.
"Come, you two must hurry," the smith said, as he led them to the back, where he kept the horse and cart. "The money is in the cart, along with supplies. Get going, and don't look back. I can get you out, but then the rest is up to you, understand?"
A moment later, the smith was leading the horses and cart through the burning town, his grip firm on the reins, and his control over the horses was absolute.
The fires about the town were growing larger… as were the screams and laughter.
Wayland and Brigid did their best not to look, while the smith seemed... not unfazed, but steely, and resigned.
As they reached the town entrance, an arrow suddenly embedded itself into the smith's side, and it sent him toppling to the ground with a grunt.
"Leaving so soon, you little bastards?" came a voice out of Wayland's nightmares, as he picked brought the cart to a halt.
Striding from the smoke was the innkeeper, his face still marred by the smith's branding iron. He was not as fat as he had once been, and was garbed in leather and iron. In his hands, he brandished a sword. He was surrounded by plenty of men, and each was armed and armored.
"I brought more with me, this time," the porcine man said, his scarred face distorting with his scowl. "You won't get in my way again, metal beater."
In lieu of a verbal reply, the old smith got to his feet. With a grunt, he snapped off the arrow and turned to face the brigands.
"Go," the smith said, as he unslung his hammer. "Take your sister, and get away from here as far and as fast as you can get the horses. Don't stop for anything. Don't stop running until you are far away and out of the Stormlands, do you understand me?"
"But-"
"Do you understand me? Please, just nod yes."
Wordlessly, Wayland nodded.
Before Wayland could then say anything else, the old smith firmly slapped the rump of the left horse. With a loud whinny, the horse and its fellow bolted away, carrying the cart behind them.
As Wayland fumbled with the reins, he chanced a look back and saw the smith charge towards the brigands. The old man let loose a mighty and defiant roar the echoed through the night, as he charged forward with his hammer upraised….
On through the rest of the night, Wayland urged the horses onwards. Even as the firelight dimmed away in the distance, and the screams could no longer be heard, he still sped them ever onward and ever forward.
Eventually, they reached a paved road, and Wayland drew the tired horses to a slow and gentle canter, and then to a complete stop.
Neither he nor Brigid said anything as Wayland prepared a small fire.
Sleep was fitful, and not even the sound of the ringing hammer could comfort him or Brigid.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Remember
Wayland was not sure that he would ever forget.
Even though a part of him desperately wanted to.
They rose early, as the sun rose, and started on up the road.
North, to be precise.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.
The sky was somewhat overcast, and there were a few passersby on the road. It seemed like that for most days as they rode, rested, and rode more.
There was little to do, really, but talk. Even then, there was never much to talk about.
"Do you think anyone else survived?" Brigid asked one day, as she lay back in the cart.
"I hope so," Wayland replied. "I really do."
Remember
They rode and rested through rain and sun and day and night and fog and mist. Every day, the sack of gold the smith had given them grew ever so slightly smaller.
Days turned to weeks, and they continued onwards.
They were between the Reach and the Crownlands now. They had passed by many castles and Caravans and on their travel north. Some of their banners, Wayland and Brigid recognized from tourneys past; Rosby, Tyrell, Swann, Velaryon, Ashford, Caswell, and many others.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.
Brigid looked about as they continued on. She looked at the sky, at the hills and road and trees and everything. In the distance, she and Wayland saw the famous King's Landing, but neither she nor Wayland held any great desire to travel there.
They had to get north, after all.
"It's odd," she said one day, over the clip-clop of the horses. "We've traveled outside the Stormlands before. Yet, I feel as if this is the first time that we've truly done such a thing. The first time we've ever truly traveled, outside and away from home."
"I reckon it's because, before, we've always had a home that we could return to," Wayland replied. "Now we don't, and the world seems so much larger than once it was."
Brigid nodded. "It does."
They fell silent as the sun crested into the afternoon sky.
"What do you think we'll find, in Beleriand?" Wayland then asked.
Brigid pulled herself up to a sitting position and shrugged. "I don't know; perhaps whatever the smith thinks we will find. Though, I'm sure we'll know it when we see it."
Wayland nodded.
The summer night was warm, and so there was little need for a fire.
Since neither felt tired at the moment, Wayland and Brigid rested side-by-side against one of the cart's wheels, looking up at the night sky. They were nearing the Riverlands, and they still had so very far to go.
As they gazed up at the stars, a thought came to Wayland's mind.
"It's rather odd," he said.
"What is?"
"How long did we know the smith or the Green lady?"
Brigid thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. "Most of our lives, so, roughly 18 years. Why?"
"In all that time… I don't recall ever asking either of them their names."
There was little else said, that night. The rest of it was spent in silent contemplation and then a night of deep sleep.
Remember
Clip-clop, clip-clop, cli-
Two days into the Riverlands, one of the horses collapsed, dead.
Wayland let the other horse run free and procced to simply pull the cart himself. Unsurprisingly, their progress north slowed at a noticeable rate.
Wayland never complained though. Besides, it was not as if they had too many funds left for any replacements. Horses were not cheap, after all, especially the good ones.
He hurt but held no complaints.
This was all new to him and Brigid. When he, Brigid, and the smith had traveled to tourneys, it had only been to the Reach, other areas of the Stormlands, and the Crownlands. They had even traveled to Dorne a few times.
But never to the Riverlands. As they trudged, Wayland and Brigid looked about.
There was a beauty to it, Wayland would admit. Countless babbling brooks and rivers, and many rich-looking farms and lands and towns. One particularly large town was surrounded by several farms, and the town's walls bore a symbol familiar to the siblings; that of the paired swans and colorful feathers of House Swann.
They could not stay in any of the towns, as their funds were slowly dwindling. Instead, they spent what they had on food that they needed, and slept in the cart under tarps whenever it would rain.
Still, they continued onward, over mud and grass and what roads there were that were not being rebuilt.
They garnered a few looks from processions lordly and low that passed them by; a muscular man pulling a large cart by himself, while a muscular woman with bound legs seemed to lounge in the back instead of helping.
Wayland and Brigid ignored them. They ignored the looks and the lewd comments that some directed towards Brigid.
Those were pointedly ignored.
Every night, before sleep, Wayland and Brigid gazed up at the stars. Small things, like little bits of fire.
"It's strange," said Brigid one night, from her side of the cart.
"What is?" Wayland asked.
"It's the stars. I think that they look… familiar?"
"Familiar? How so?"
"They are similar… similar to the ones that are always in the dream. But they are not the same."
He squinted up at the night sky and saw what she meant.
The positioning was off, though. After years of the dream, he could never forget even a single detail of it.
Remember
"You're right. What do you think it means?" he asked his sister.
She looked up at the night sky. "I think... I think it means that we are heading to where we are supposed to go."
That seemed as good a reason as any, Wayland supposed.
Several lean and long days later, when they made it to the Green Fork, Wayland had gone down to one meal a day, two at most. He made sure that Brigid ate all three meals, despite her protestations.
He could make it; she still could not walk. Besides, he was her big brother; it was his job to look after her, right?
The Twins was an imposing-looking fortress, as most seemed to be, but in a squat, young sort of manner. It's two identical castles sprung up from the ground on either side of the Green Fork like two grey, unwieldy horns from the skull of an old ram. The most noticeable aspect was the bridge, of course. There was a bit of traffic, though it was almost entirely to the northern shore, across the water.
Squaring his shoulders, Wayland pulled the cart up to the bridge, and stood in line, at the very end. As always, he and Brigid ignored the looks.
Eventually, he was able to approach the guards. They were each garbed in chainmail and half-helm and were armored with shortsword and long spear and round wooden shields, emblazoned with the symbol of House Frey.
The chain and helmets and weapons looked reasonably made, though they could have been forged a lot better. Despite the moment, Wayland felt a variety of ideas running through his head on how to do that; a little more coke to the forge, hammer at a 35-degree angle, moderate power behind each swing…
"What is your reason for crossing over from Westeros?" the guard said, snapping Wayland back into the present.
Wayland blinked. "My sister and I; we want to go to Beleriand."
"Really? I would never have fucking guessed," the second guard, whose face reminded Wayland of a weasel, said with a derisive snort. "Any particular reason as to why you want to go there?"
"My sister and I; we want to go to one of the trading colonies that we've heard tell of. We want to hone our craft."
"And what craft is that?"
"Blacksmithing."
The guard looked at Wayland for a long moment, and then at Brigid for another long moment. "She's a blacksmith too?"
"Aye," Brigid said. "I am."
"And far better than me," Wayland said.
The guards looked at each other, and then the weasel smirked. "Well, I suppose your muscles are freakish enough for there to be truth in your words. Probably makes for an interesting fuck. Why are you in the cart, muscled girl?"
Wayland's eyes narrowed a bit at the insult to Brigid, but she was the one who answered. "I was born unable to walk. You, on the other hand, must have been born without an iota of decency in your brain or a sword between your legs. May we pass, please, and dispense with this witless pleasantry?"
The rude and weasel-like guard took a step towards the cart, anger on his weasel-like face until his compatriot put a hand on his shoulder. The weaselly guard took a moment to collect himself and then gave a disingenuous-looking smile. "But of course, 'lady blacksmith.' Just pay the toll first."
"And what is the toll?" Wayland asked, despite having a good idea as to where this was going.
The man's smile grew wider, showing yellowed teeth. "100 gold dragons. Each"
Wayland could not stop the look of shock from spreading over his face. Neither could Brigid. They had perhaps a fraction of that amount left.
"Aye. You could either pay that, which you don't seem to have… or let us spend a nice bit of time with your sister there. Never fucked a woman who couldn't walk before." The weasel said. "Should be interesting, to say the least."
"Fuck you," his compatriot said. "Leave me out of this."
"Fuck you right back," the weasel retorted. "We're supposed to squeeze as much coin out of fuckwits like these two before the knife-ears start building more bridges across the Green Fork, and make us fucking redundant. And, if we can't get any cold, hard coin, then at least, I can put my warm, hard cock inside any woman desperate enough to cross over into the fuking fairylands, even if this muscled freak can't fucking walk. So shut the fuck up, and let me fucking have this, fuckwit!"
Wayland felt his hands tighten into fists, eager to smash the weasel's face to a bloody pulp. "That's not happening."
"Then pay the two-hundred dragons, blacksmith," the smiling yellow teeth said. "Or turn around, and start walking the fuck away and back to whatever backwoods piece of shit that you call home."
Just one punch. That was all it would take. One punch to smash out those yellow teeth, as well as that horrid smile…
For a brief moment, Wayland swore he could hear thunder in his ears.
"Wayland," Brigid said, cutting through the thunder. "Let's just go. They're not worth it."
Wayland took a few deep breaths, then grabbed the cart, turned, and pulled it away.
The mocking laughter of the weasel-guard echoed in his ears.
He would remember that laughter for a good while.
With nowhere else to go, the pair headed east, following the Green Fork for several miles. When night fell, they camped by its bank, in a wooded area. It was a windless night, so it was not terribly cold, and the fire felt nice.
"What do we do now?" Wayland asked as the campfire crackled and spat sparks and embers.
Brigid could do naught but shrug. Nothing more was said until they went to sleep. Until they did, they simply looked up at the stars.
These stars, they looked more familiar. Familiar, but still… not yet.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
More sparks flew upwards and filled the endless night.
Four times did the great hammer rise, and four times did it fall against the anvil.
Remember
Wayland did not attempt to look up at the hammer's wielder. This time, he looked at when they were crafting. It was made not of metal... but of...
Wood?
As he did, a memory came to him….
When they had started living with the smith, he had taken them to the Rainwood and felled several trees.
After they had been felled, he had shown Wayland and Brigid how to craft various kinds of rudimentary boast. Nothing grand and mighty, of course. But ones that would nonetheless float.
Brigid had asked him why he was showing them this. Why did blacksmiths need to know how to craft and engineer a boat?
The smith had gotten a faraway look in his eye at that for a moment at that question, pausing in his demonstration. "It is said that one of the first things man ever saw, once the gods gave him the ability to think complex thoughts, was the sea. At that moment, man looked out upon that vast, endless blue... and it was terrifying beyond all measure. But then, that terror? It turned into curiosity, and with curiosity comes learning and ingenuity.
"Man then began to watch, and learn. Man watched as broken trees floated on the waves and waters of rivers and seas when they fell. Thus, man learned that wood could float.
"Over time, man kept watching and kept learning and then used the ingenuity that was birthed from curiosity and learning to grow. Man learned to lash together several broken trees and made rafts. Those rafts then became boats. Those boats, in turn, allowed man to find new shores, new ideas, new stories, and new peoples.
"Without boats, without the sea, without curiosity; man would not have learned, and thus would never have been able to grow; and we would not be here, talking about it. Instead, we would all be grunting over little huts of mud and refuse. So, it is because of the sea, of curiosity, that you should learn how to make a boat. You will never know when such a skill might just come in handy. There may come a moment in your lives when you will need to grow and to learn, and, for want of a boat, you were unable to reach that place; the place where you could have learned and grown.
"Do you understand?"
After that, Wayland and Brigid eagerly took to the boat-building lessons.
Remember
Of course; for he would never forget.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
The next day, Wayland rose early, told Brigid of the plan, and then the two set to work. Wayland severed several trees and branches, while Brigid nailed and scraped and tied. They even took apart the cart for extra wood.
It took them roughly two days, and they barely stopped to eat what little rations they scavenged.
On the morning of the third day, their little vessel was finished.
The large raft was no great beauty, and it held no sweeping curves or mighty masts and sails and decks and levels. But, it was a serviceable little thing, with a little cubby for Brigid to hide in when the time came, an oar, and a rudder for steering.
"What should we call it?" Wayland asked as he dusted off his hands and stretched out his weary limbs.
Brigid scratched the side of her head in contemplation. "The Green Smith," she said.
Wayland nodded. The Green Smith. Yes, that seemed like a very good name for it, their little boat.
About an hour or so later, they were off down the river.
When they came within distance of the Twins, Brigid crawled into the cubby, while Wayland prepared for his part.
Taking a few breathes, he slipped over the back of the boat, grabbed onto the handholds, and began to push.
If they were spotted, it would all be over, of course.
The water; the water felt freezing. But he ignored it; he ignored the chill and the damp, and he began to kick and push. Slowly, the boat kept floating and creaking forwards.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
After what felt like an eternity of cold… they passed under the bridge.
They were not noticed.
The moment they were passed, Wayland pulled himself out of the water and lay upon the small deck, shivering as he quickly toweled himself off with any dry cloth they had, while Brigid swiftly dragged herself over and steered the rudder.
He still felt a little cold.
The next day, it was warm, and the sky was clear. But they were down to their last few bits of food.
Without hesitation, Wayland practically forced Brigid to take the last bite. He was her brother. It was his job to take care of her, after all, the ability to bend steel barehanded notwithstanding.
Still, the river was gentle and smooth and made for relatively easy sailing.
Wayland and Brigid planned to embark upon the nearest shore once they found an opening.
The land all about them was peaceful and serene. But there was no one about. Just the sounds of wildlife.
At night, the sky was filled with more stars than either sibling had ever before seen in their lives.
It was beautiful.
But still, these stars were not exactly like what they had dreamed of. Close, but still not quite.
Did that mean that they were close to where they needed to go? Where they needed to be?
They both felt so tired though. Tired and hungry. It was so hard for them to keep their eyes open.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
They fell asleep beneath a blanket of stars….
When Wayland had fallen asleep on The Green Smith, his back had been upon hard and damp wood.
When he opened his eyes, he was upon the softest mattress he had ever rested upon.
"I see you are awake, young human," came a strong and powerful voice.
Blearily, Wayland turned his head to his left, and beheld a tall and austere-looking figure, seated next to the bed in a wooden chair.
The figure was female, with grey hair, a youthful face, green eyes…. And pointed ears. She was garbed in fine, yet simple, silks with little ornamentation.
Behind her, Wayland saw his sister asleep in another bed.
Currently, those grey eyes were upon Wayland. "You and your sister have been asleep for nearly four days. We had to feed you broth whilst you slept, for you both seemed to be almost starving."
Respect flashed in those gray eyes. "Your little vessel; it was simple but well crafted. A good bit of engineering with the tools you had on hand. Well done."
She leaned forward and rested a gentle hand upon Wayland's forehead. She smelled faintly like the lilacs that Wayland and Brigid had once smelled in the Reach. "You both have had quite a long journey. When you feel better, my lord will wish to hear of it in full detail. But that can wait, for there is no rush. You are safe here. Rest now, regain your strength, and dream of kindly things."
As if it had been a command, Wayland slowly drifted back to sleep on the soft, soft bed and pillow.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
When he next awoke, Wayland felt… better. Invigorated, was the word for it.
Brigid did as well.
The elves, for those were the people who had found them, had laid out new and comfortable clothes for them to wear. In addition, they provided Brigid with a strange contraption for her to sit in, and which she could roll by herself, or that Wayland could push.
After a few tests, Brigid got the hang of the contraption and wheeled herself about.
She and Wayland exited their room and walked down the gracefully decorated and expertly carved hallways. They passed a few guards; some were men, and others were elves, and their armor and weapons were so expertly crafted, it made Wayland and Brigid's eyes widen in shock and awe.
Soon enough, they came upon an open garden, and the night sky above them was full of stars.
Stars… that were exactly position like in the dream.
As the pair looked up in wonder, a familiar noise graced their ears.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
That… that was real.
Curious and perplexed, the pair followed the sound out of the open garden, through another hallway, until they came to a large room.
No, it was a forge, and one great than any they had ever seen. The furnace itself seemed well crafted and grand. Huge racks of tools and finished items and implements lined the walls, alongside a great pool of water in which to quench heated metal.
A solitary figure was within, pounding away at an unseen object held in tongs. His hammer rose and fell with ease and finesse.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Then, Wayland and Brigid looked up.
Over the doorway, there was engraved a strange looking symbol.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
As they looked upon the symbol, Brigid and Wayland both felt a thought enter their minds, and exit from their mouths.
"Remember."
As they spoke the single word, the solitary figure in the forge ceased his hammering, lifted up his head, and slowly turned to face them.
Like all the elves they had seen thus far, he was of a noble-looking mien and a melancholy air. His hair was black, and his eyes were a pale blue-grey.
In his hands, he held a hammer, and a pair of forge tongs, clutched in which was what looked like the rough shape of a ring…
He looked at them, and then he spoke, with a deep voice. "Yes. That is what it says. How did you know that?"
"We… we didn't," Brigid said. "It was just a bit of… familiarity. Like from…"
"A dream?" the smith finished. "A dream of a mighty hammer against an anvil, where the sparks became stars in the sky?"
Wayland wordlessly nodded.
Neither said anything else for a long moment, as the elf studied the siblings.
Then, he nodded, as if he had just understood a great and inescapable truth. "You best come in then. I feel that there is much for us to discuss, and much still for you both to learn…."
The First of the Storm
When he woke up, he was on a bed.
"Please, don't move too much," came a familiar voice. "I just finished binding your wounds."
He blinked, and looked upon a familiar face, cloaked in familiar green robes.
"Thank you for binding them," he said.
"You're welcome. You were lucky I found you when I did. You had all but bled out. You should have been more careful. You aren't as young as you once were. At least you have a few new scars."
With a groan, the smith gingerly rose from the bed of slightly steady feet. "I had to get them to safety. You know that as well as I do."
"Indeed."
"Was there anyone else still alive?"
"A few," she said. "By the time the Lord's men rallied, most of the townsfolk were dead or carried off. You did manage to kill most of the bandits though. Well done."
"Only most?"
Perhaps he was getting old.
Slowly, he made his way across the floor and to the house's railing, and looked out into the heavy Rainwood, up above from the tree where it rested.
He looked at the rest of the trees. "I see that you've planted a few more."
"I have," his wife said as she walked up beside him. "Many times, since last you were by my side."
Everything was silent for a moment.
She then sighed and gently leaned her head against his unwounded shoulder. "Those two… they remind me of our first ones. Do you remember them, Durran? Do you remember our little ones? How small and sweet they were? How great they became?"
Durran of Galladon, Durran Halfbreed, Durran Goddsgrief, exhaled through his nose and rubbed at the pointed tip of his left ear as he oft did when melancholy. "I remember them all, Elenei. Such is our burden, after all. You that as well as I do."
"Of course I do," she said. "I know it all too well."
He put a tender arm around her and held her close. "Will they be alright, do you think?"
She nodded, as she wrapped her arms around him. "Aule has his eye upon them. They will be safe in the crafter's care."
Nothing more was said, as the two looked out over the forest, one that they had watched grow from saplings, so very long ago….
The price that Durran and Elenei would pay for their love… was knowledge. The knowledge that they would outlive their children, that they would see whole generations of their family rise and fall, whilst they remained, lest violent death fall upon them. In addition, Elenei was bound to a mortal form, with many of her divine powers being made dormant. But if she were to unleash them, and reclaim her godly might, she would never again be allowed to step foot upon the mortal lands.
In her grief upon this knowledge, Elenei planted many tree saplings near the place where she and Durran first affirmed their love, and her tears fell like rain, making them grow to unfathomable heights. Thus, was the Rainwood born. It is said that she dwells there to this day planting a hundred-fold new tree every day, for the hundred-fold children of her line that she will watch be born, grow old, and die…
A/N: Thing of this as a nice Holliday gift. Sorry for how long it took to write. Real-life and all that. Next chapter? Well, that will be a bit of a love story, a tale of two who are drawn together by fate and the love of the sea and its mysteries.