.

.

.

A Fore-Scribbling:

Admittedly, the main plot is still possible without this episode, but it felt essential to write it in order to circle back and close the themes from Chapter Two - Taking Root (i.e. mastery and skill), and Chapter One – Crossroads (the Helper and the Helpless, and choices/decisions). I swears, Book Three is near. But Chapter 57 is an uncooperative biting beast and we're right smack in the middle of an internal audit where my *inner* responses are variations of "Eh? What's that line doing in our policy manual never read it before whaddya' mean I wrote it six years ago I was a different person then I was a mushroom at the time now I'm a cactus asdfghjkl LOL". *sobz*

.

.

Dearest Readers, as Okami once said - He who looks not to where he began, shall never find the path to his journey's end.
.

THE HIDDEN SWORD

Book Two: Wandering Water | Chapter 56: Return to the Crossroads

.

Even with the years behind her and the countless steel fashioned by her own hands, Irse suddenly felt like the child she had been when she first stepped into the home of Filmon – the blacksmith who once opened his door to a wanderer and a runaway.

And most importantly, had been gracious enough not to charge a then fumbling novice over a defective crooked nail.

Not long down the road, she came upon the recognizable trail by the side. It led to the familiar hamlet – just as small as memory recalled, not even half a dozen humble houses. Irse quirked her lip with regret. If only Okami were here with her. But even his absence didn't dim the excitement of seeing the kindly blacksmith once more, and the expectant pride of being able to show Filmon the Kogitsune and of her own journey as an apprentice.

Except, the master of the house and forge was no longer there as was his mother, Sara, who had passed away from old age and illness a year ago.

His wife, Elena, sat across the table, harried. Another child, not yet past her fifth summer, played with dolls at the kitchen floor, oblivious, until the mother bade her go outside. Beside her stood the blacksmith's eldest son, Jerem, about seventeen summers, a leaner spitting image of his father.

A fortnight and some days ago, Filmon had gone up to the Friendly Arm for the usual repairs work but had not come home. Beneath the table and upon her lap, the elf balled her fists. Bandits, most likely. Worse, she had to be the one to tell them what she had learned from the guards, that the blacksmith never reached the place at all.

Still, the family held out hope. Surely Filmon had good reason to turn aside somewhere and couldn't send word, but to where and why? The unthinkable wouldn't lend itself into words, and Elena could only shake her head, tightlipped.

"Don't fret," Jerem said, rubbing his mother's shoulder. "Father has got to be out there somewhere."

"Your son is right, Ma'am," Irse said with forced cheer. "I'm sure the gods are keeping him safe." The Master of Blades watch over every single blacksmith missing in the Sword Coast right now.

Despite their worries, Elena remained gracious, offering their roof and hearth, insisting the girl stay at least the night with them. Ashamed, Irse confessed to having little coin, but volunteered to do any chore around the homestead. At her request, Jerem led her to the smithy. Oddly, the shelves appeared empty of iron and implements, as if someone cleaned out the whole place.

"Did Mister Filmon take all his things with him?"

An innocent question, but one the young man took with tense silence. Jerem mounted a crate to reach up to the rafters and retrieved a sack from a corner girder. Upon the table he drew out its contents: a few tools and a bundle of uncut iron rods.

Irse just had to smile. Nails, again.

"Really, you needn't do anything at all, but if this helps take your mind off things," Jerem said. "Father often spoke of you and your master. I suppose, seeing you made Mother remember a good memory of him even for a moment."

Irse could only reply with a humbled smile. Immediately she set to lighting the forge and arranging the tools. A quick pat at her belt pouch reminded her of one important though small thing - the last piece of adamantine. An idea just as tiny flickered through her mind.

"If it's all right, I'd also like to borrow the tools after I'm done with the nails. There's something I need to work on, but don't trouble yourself about the iron. I brought my own."

"I hope yours isn't any of the rotten ones from Nashkel. Use whatever you need. I'm sure Father won't mind. If he were here."

Jerem gave her a polite nod then stepped out. Irse observed the youth as he walked away with a rake. Clearly, a man who preferred the field over the forge.

Unlike that first attempt years ago, making the nails this time proved to be the quick and easy warm-up that didn't take all morning. Why, she could've done the whole job blindfolded while balancing on a barrel and juggling a hammer and a pincer. But of course she didn't, reined in by the specter of Okami's plausible disapproval and not wanting to accidentally set someone else's livelihood on fire right after they offered to feed and shelter her for the night.

Pleased with herself, she eyed the fragment of adamantine waiting expectantly upon the anvil. Now what to make of this one?

Something small but sharp and suited for both stealth and service.

Grinning, the former apprentice knew exactly what to forge out of it.

.

.

Tiny but extremely indispensable.

Quite one of the simplest works she had done so far. Bladed end hammered to even flatness and polished, the handle drawn with its tip coiled for decoration and better grip. Permitting herself a small patch of pride, Irse admired her handiwork, angling the blade in the afternoon light, its beams reflected in a minute rainbow upon the dark surface.

Now, what to call this adamantine butter knife?

A tenth of a candle of staring at the dusky blade surprisingly yielded nothing, and not even the ones she had thought previously for the tachi seemed to fit at all.

"What do you think?" she asked the Kogitsune. If it had a head like a pup, it would've cocked its face to the side in equal befuddlement.

Sighing, Irse flipped the small knife and swaddled it with a rag for the meantime.

Perhaps, it wasn't for her to name, yet.

.

.

Time to wash up for supper. About to step through the threshold of the house, she paused. From within echoed their anxious whisperings, low but enough to be caught by elven ears.

"Son, could you go and borrow some flour and perhaps if they might spare a bit of butter? You can promise them whatever you'll take out of the harvest."

"They'll only refuse us like before," came Jerem's upset reply. "As if those damned bandits haven't already cleaned everyone's barn and larder. If only Father were here."

"Hush. I wish he were here too, but there's naught that we can do now."

"What of Beregost? I can run there for help. No one will care I'm gone for days if you tell them I went hunting in the woods."

"And if they find out somehow we told the Fist? Didn't they warn us – our houses and fields will burn like the caravans? Please, just beg the neighbors for a cup of flour."

There goes the plan to ask for seconds at supper and a bite before midnight. Chagrined, Irse marched back to the smithy. Once again, the starkly empty rack and shelves greeted her. Gazing up at the rafters, the mind's eye saw the young man desperately tucking the tools and unfinished work among the beams to keep them out of the bandits' greedy sight, and if perhaps his father might have something of his life waiting for him upon his return.

Restless and furious, she paced the floor, a hand on the tachi. It was all her feet could do to keep from flying through the door and into the woods to seek out these raiders herself. But then her stomach rumbled, striking down the foolhardy impulse.

Irse slumped on a stool. She didn't mean to be an extra mouth to feed. On the other hand, Jerem sounded like this wouldn't be the first time the neighbors had refused to help them. The village didn't look exactly like a place brimming with plenty, but from what she had come to know in Dearg, farming folk were often nifty with hiding and burying stuff. Maybe they've managed to conceal their stores from the bandits? If they did, couldn't they take some pity on the mother and her children?

Absently, Irse grabbed a large clay pot from the shelf and found herself staring into its emptiness. What else could be done right now? Clean it. A pointless distraction, but at least it was something to center the mind. A quick wash from a trough outside, and she poured about a cup of well water in it for another rinse.

"What're you doing?" one of the villagers asked.

"What am I doing?" Irse huffed. "I'm making soup." That ought to shut their prying. Back to the smithy she stomped and dumped the pot on a brazier, if making a show of it might satisfy his curiosity and send him away.

"Seems like you don't have anything with you to make soup."

Irritated, Irse whipped out the first thing she felt at in her pocket. "Of course I do. I only need this."

"A crooked nail?"

Startled back to reality, she stared at the small peg in her hand. The first nail she had ever forged by herself. "Yes, this nail."

"Are you going to work some sort of elven magic? I want to see."

Irse glowered at him, but the man merely stared back blankly. Did everyone think elves were some kind of genie people – able to randomly conjure stuff out of nothing?

"Yes, elven magic." Her annoyance growing, she tossed the nail into the pot and lit a fire beneath. Now a handful of folk gathered at the doorway, whispering among themselves.

"She's going to make soup with just water and a nail."

"Elven Nail Soup!"

"I reckon it'll taste something weird."

Irse grimaced. Why could people not simply mind their own affairs? Maybe if they were helping her with this fake soup, even just a crumb…

A grin slowly spread on her face, like butter left out too long on a steaming loaf.

"Correct! A non-elf could never tell what this soup tastes like, never know just how good, nay exquisite it is, even if they slurp it down to the last drop," she proclaimed.

Disappointment drooped in their eyes. Irse wagged her head, mirroring the draining of their dream, the rarest chance to sample elven fare in their short lifetime.

"But-," Irse added teasingly, savoring the sudden flicker of hope on their faces. "Would you like to know how you can taste it with your human tongue?"

"Sure, I wanna try for myself!"

"Aye, let us have a bite of the magic!"

"It better not taste like strange mushrooms."

"It shouldn't be impossible, although-," Irse said, voice trailing and wondering as she gazed up. "I'll need to add ingredients for human food."

"Why?"

"You know how wizards require things- components, yes, components for their spells? Same here, I'd need human food ingredients to, ah- create a magical bridge between elven and human taste!"

How great the effort went into keeping her eye from twitching tellingly at the fib. But the villagers fell into thoughtful silence as they considered the demand.

"Eh, you might wanna start with some cream or stock to thicken it up."

Irse raised both brows to signal – What are you waiting for? The man nodded excitedly and hurried back to his home to fetch the stuff. At his hasty departure, a lively debate ensued.

"What about vegetables? Can we put potatoes and carrots in your elven soup?"

"I'd like some peas and parsley in there."

"Beans, please!"

"I just remembered! We must've pulled up some garlic and leeks from the garden."

"You can't have soup without crusty bread. I know just where to get 'em!"

"Certainly," Irse proclaimed, magnanimously sweeping her hand over the pot. "You can put anything you think will make this elven soup a more fitting fare for humans."

Barely had she finished her sentence, the others already scrambled back to their houses. The first returned with the promised broth, bragging about it being his wife's best carrot-celery-combo. Whoever volunteered the garlic and leeks had the amazing foresight to bring their own butter and pan for browning. Irse pointed them to a small firepit in the corner. Another came in with bottles of dried herbs and seasonings, cumin and paprika, cradled in their arms, proudly proclaiming the virtues of their ancestor's secret spice mix.

"We should make an extra pot, enough for everyone to have seconds!" someone piped up, followed by several 'ayes' and a mad dash to fetch another large pan and double the ingredients. To reassure them that her special magic would be sufficient, the elf made a great show of drawing up the crooked nail from the first pot and steeping it in the second one.

Irse graciously stepped back and allowed them to peel and chop up and plunk in whatever they wanted in the soup. While they did their tasks, the elf would peer in, pose contrived questions about the ingredients, then managed the most serious focusing expression on her face.

"Wait a breath here," said a cranky woman, the one Irse had assigned to stirring the soup. "If this be elven fare, then why're we humans doin' the cookin'?"

Everyone paused and stared and waited. Irse chuckled awkwardly and twiddled thumbs.

"Because I have to, ah- stand back and- and- concentrate on working my- elven magic to make sure everything turns out perfect!" she exclaimed, wriggling her fingers in what she hoped might pass for arcane gestures.

One of the children elbowed another and whispered, "I bet it's one of those elfish High Magic the bards be singing about."

Irse pursed her lip, eyes up. What did the practitioners of the Arts refer to their easiest spells? Cantrips, was it? But then to call this as such might make them ask more questions.

"No, not elven High Magic, that's too powerful," she replied in feigned gravity. "It's more of… mid-level magic. Yes, that's it. Middle Magic."

Murmurs of awe washed over the crowd, and they happily resumed their task.

"A pinch more of pepper and it's done," the stirring lady announced.

With great fanfare, Irse drew out the crooked nail, reverently wiping and wrapping it in a clean rag. "For others out there, who might need a bite to get through the day as well," she quipped with a wink at the mystified onlookers.

Elena and Jerem stepped into the smithy, a mix of surprise and bewilderment on their faces. "By Ilmater, what is going on here?" the mother asked.

"These good folk here have just made Elven Nail Soup for everyone," Irse said with pride, canting her head towards the troop of beaming villagers.

Everyone gathered in front of the smithy to enjoy the impromptu feast. Torches were lit and someone hauled a long table outside on which miraculously appeared hampers of bread and fruit, sweetmeats, bottles of wine and cheese. Not a few of those present winked at each other knowingly. The soup was brought out and ladled onto a veritable row of eager bowls.

Irse leaned against the doorframe, eyes observant above the rim of the cup at her lips. Everyone appeared at ease, as if this was the first instance in a long time. Amidst praises for the tasty soup, there were murmured embarrassed apologies at not having shared their stores, met with reassuring understanding from the others that these were dangerous days, and no one could be blamed for simply wanting to survive. Irse swirled the remaining soup in her bowl, watching them with a faint smile like a mother satisfied with her errant children finally learning a great lesson.

"Looks like they forgot to invite us to the feast!"

Laughter and merriment abruptly ceased at the arrival of newcomers. Half a dozen men - on their faces the bearings of hardened souls and in their hands weapons drawn. Irse squinted at the sight of the incomplete pieces of armor upon their person - some with only vambraces, another with a dented plate, a few with only helmets. And of their short swords - too new, most not even done with the final polish. Taken too soon before the blacksmith who made them was done with the work.

Their leader, the tallest and burliest in their troop, kicked at a staked torch, sending sparks fading on the ground and the nearest villagers edging back.

"Didn't you say your larders were empty? You field rats got the guts to lie to us now?"

"After all we're doing to protect them from our own fellows, the nerve. How about we come back with the lot of us and burn your fallow little plots to ashes," drawled one of thugs, haughtily twirling a sword and pointing with it at the people.

Jerem's eyes broadened, aggrieved. "Those are father's-," he hissed and made to step forward, but his mother fearfully grasped his arm.

Irse continued to sip at her cup, eyes narrowed. The ruffians spread out and strolled through the crowd, waving their swords or smacking the broad side of the blades on their palms, thrusting their noses into the faces of any who dared look up. A few of the menfolk wincing and unconsciously clutching at their sides and shoulders, perhaps having suffered a prior beating at their hands.

"Please, sirs, don't do that," begged a village elder. "We'll give you everything you ask."

"Well, that won't be enough," their leader barked and shoved at the old woman.

Irse stepped over the threshold.

"No, that is already enough."

Startled, they glanced around, seeking the source of the challenge. Their sights finally settled upon the elf as she approached. Eyeing them in return, Irse casually slurped the last drop from the bowl, then cradled the empty cup in her sword hand.

"And who do you think you are, leaf-eared wench?"

Absently, Irse pulled back her hair and readied a hand at the scabbard. But one look at her face, and they started cowering.

"By Talos! It's the elf in the bounty notices!"

They turned as one and bolted away, leaving their startled leader swiveling about stupidly. The man cursed his cowardly fellows and ran after the others, not even sparing a final glance at Irse who glowered incredulously at the hoodlums now fleeing in panic.

"I'm not that elf!" She wagged a fist at them. "Gah! Whatever! Come back here and face me, you ninnies!"

"Nope," one of the thugs yelled back.

Irse stamped a foot, disappointed, then proceeded to the chase. Deftly she lobbed the empty cup which caught the leader at the back of his head, causing him to trip and roll in the dirt. Feebly he attempted to rise and swing his sword, but the weapon was batted out of his hands by the unsheathed tachi, and his senses knocked out of his noggin as his lips met with the butt end of the scabbard. One of his cohorts tried to succor him but too quickly regretted his momentary bravado. He fell to his knees, shallowly cut but trembling at the sight of the glistening dark blade.

The sudden turn of the tables must have kindled a spark, for the village folk raised a cry and joined her to swarm after the rest. In no time, all of the brutes were captured and led back to the square, gagged and bound tightly, two to a tree.

As it turned out, they were nothing more than an unremarkable gang of pickpockets from Westgate who left their little cesspool in the north and somehow found their way south. Recruited along the road by a scouting party for the bandits, they had been eager to join the ranks until they themselves came upon the remains of a few ambushes by the said mad elf. The terrifying testimony of a lone survivor before he croaked in a puddle of his own blood and innards didn't help in bolstering the appeal of their new employment. And so they made a break for it and soon enough found themselves here in the village where scaring the potatoes out of a few farmers proved easy and profitable.

At the threat of being skewered by the very short swords they had pilfered from the smithy, the self-styled plunderers reluctantly surrendered the stolen armor and weapons.

"Hopefully, a Fist patrol might pass this way before the month's end," said Jerem with grim satisfaction. "But then I heard the wolves are getting pretty hungry out there."

Some of the thugs whimpered and squirmed. Not exactly a generous sentence, but then, one who dares to trouble a bunch of heartened farmers ought to be ready to reap what they've sown.

.

.

Down the road she marched with a spring in her step. Mainly because her pack and purse were still quite light.

The village folk wanted to reward her with their remaining coin, but Irse would only accept a loaf of bread and some cheese, enough for the rest of the journey to Beregost. They can have all of the Elven Nail Soup, though.

To Elena and Jerem, Irse swore she would search for Filmon or at least find out what had befallen him. If only this family's kindness could be repaid with a more cheerful deed.

Pleasantly, the road rolled on without further trouble from bandits and monsters alike. She found herself whistling a tune, as jaunty as her steps. A good while it went, and then the humming ceased.

For there before her lay the crossroads and a waypost. Candlekeep to the West. Beregost to the South.

Staring at the familiar trail, her heart raced sure, feet suddenly faint and wavering.

Home. Gorion. Imoen. Brother Karan and Winthrop and everyone she knew from childhood.

Is it a fault to wish everything were as easy again? For life to be once more as simple as what she had known behind those walls? Tempting, the warmth, the safety, the unchanging surety within those gates. The longing and the regret of the years missed. All of these surged as the waves beneath the cliffs of her old home, rising to sweep away what remained of her reserve. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut with pressing guilt.

But there, in that tranquil inner morning, she saw Okami as he had once stood against the sunrise. Standing with his quiet smile as always in their crossroads.

Opening her eyes, she drew breath, as deep and sharp as needed to cut through the tide.

Hand on the tachi and the will finally steeled, Irse set her face to the south and took one more step towards the chosen path.

.

.

.