Domingo was a very humble man, a quiet but skilled jack-of-all trades. He kept to himself, mostly; even when he broke himself out of his thoughts and his work, he simply went to the town pub and drank a small pint of beer in the corner by himself.
It was not that he was rude or in disguise—rather, he was simply a shy, kind man who preferred to be left to the company of his own thoughts. Those who knew him best could never afterwards claim that they knew him half as well as they might have liked to.
Domingo loved his son, who reminded him of Marcia his dead wife, very much and wanted him to follow in his footsteps. However he might gently persuade the curly-haired lad, however, Domingo saw in his son's eyes contentment with his father's trade but the potential for something greater.
As Domingo stood hunched over his worktable that fateful night concentrating on his latest piece, his merry little round glasses slipped almost onto the end of his nose, he heard the bell over the door ring. He put down his reliable little wood chipper with the utmost gentility and silence and walked into the next room where a small man clad in long, pouffed knickers and plain brown shoes stood. He wore a deep red jacket with gold buttons gleaming and his long brown hair was slicked back onto the top of his head. His long and rather unpleasant face stood silent before him.
"Well, what may I do for you, sir?" asked Domingo in his kind but rather slow manner.
"I have an order from the Count himself, sir."
Domingo nodded in recognition. "Alright, boy. What does he need of me?"
"Well, given his, ahem, condition, sir, he asks that you first please keep this project to yourself."
Domingo nodded again, this time in silent but sufficient answer.
The steward looked in both directions while Domingo waited patiently for him to assure himself of their secrecy. "He needs a weapon, sir," he whispered. "A special one." Domingo nodded a third time. "He will pay you 5,000 gold pieces for such a weapon as he is expecting."
"I will do it," he answered. He walked back to his shop, the thought never even occurring to him that his ending was rather abrupt.
He picked up the tool again and delicately formed on the window-sill he was making for the Widow Rodriguez a small picture of birds flying around a garden.
Two days later, when he was finally convinced that the window-sill was perfect and would require no more work, he presented it to the Widow and was persuaded to install it for her, which he did.
Then he put his mind on the special order that the Count had given him, for it was his policy to work on one thing and one thing only until it was finished and finished perfectly; for it made no difference to him whether the patron was rich or poor, of high rank or a homeless one.
That night and every one following Domingo could be found hunched over his work table the same as always, his mind completely fixated on the one task ahead of him—to make the perfect weapon for the Count. He adjusted and tuned it for an entire year. For six months before he was finished, the small town was taking notice of his fixation; his son was made fun of at school for being a "hermit who never came to anything, for his father was too busy working to play." Soon Domingo's hair was graying, his clothes fitting largely, and his eyes taking on a sunken quality as he concentrated solely on the perfecting of this weapon and forgot to eat, sleep, and rest.
But all of the hard work and time lost with his precious son was worth it when he finally drew the sword from its sheath with a metallic ring and held it up, glittering, in the sunlight streaming from the dirty windows. The delicately smithied handle almost completely covered his hand in its spirals and beautiful loops. The small jewels set in the handle reflected off of one another threateningly and yet beautifully. He looked the length of the sword up and down critically. Just then his son walked in, his long locks of brown curls bobbing up and down.
"Father, it is perfect," he whispered in awe.
"It is," he answered. There was not a dent nor a scratch nor an imperfection in the entirety of its gleaming silver blade. It was finally finished. And it was beautiful.
The next day was the year to the day that he had promised the weapon.
He hid it overnight in order to keep it safe from potential thieves and vagabonds. The next morning, as he and his son had just begun to eat their breakfast of cheese and beans wrapped in tortillas, they heard the bell over the door sound. Domingo quietly set his food down and shuffled into the next room.
His son heard the argument from the next room, but did not dare to show his face to the great and noble Count.
"Sir, where is the weapon?"
He heard his father unsheathe the weapon. His heart nearly burst with the pride he felt for his father from around the corner.
"Here it is," he nearly whispered in awe.
An long, dreadful silence before the Count spoke. "Sir, I paid for a weapon of high standing—a sword fit for kings. Is this truly all that you have procured for me in the space of a year?"
"You are dissatisfied?" Domingo asked, disappointed and stunned.
"I will pay you ten gold pieces for it."
"Ten? I was promised over 500 times that!"
"It is only worth ten."
"I am sorry. But a weapon of this quality shall not be sold for such a degrading price. It belongs to my son now."
"But this weapon was not made for someone who has a normal amount—"
"I believe you have heard my answer. I now ask that you leave—"
"You cannot trick me, you dishonest fool! I know that the instant I turn my back, you will sell this for much higher than it is worth. You will give it to me for the ten pieces, or I will have you jailed!"
The boy ran into the room and grabbed the sword from his father. "How dare you call my father a liar and a fool," he seethed. He trembled from anger. "You are no more than the vomit from a dog!"
"BRAT!" the Count yelled. He unsheathed his own sword with his six-fingered hand and turned to the child. "I would like to teach you both a lesson," he said with a wicked smile and a gleam in his eye.
Without a word, he turned and ran Domingo through.
Domingo crumpled to the floor, holding his hand to his bleeding chest. His face quickly turned ashen gray.
"Father!" the boy screamed. He fell beside his father. The sword clattered to the floor beside him as he dropped it and held his father.
"Don't be too upset—he was nothing to cry over." The Count smirked, turned, and left, slamming the door after him.
The son tried frantically to save his father, but Domingo Montoya was already gone. His now-orphaned-son turned, the tears streaming, to where the Count had been standing.
"Someday," he shouted through the tears and the knot in his throat, "Someday, I, Inigo Montoya, will avenge my father! I will find you and make you pay!" He shook his fist and turned back to his father, weeping.