He sat by a small round table with a banquet spread before him filled with all good things. From fruits of various shapes and sizes to eggs cooked in multiple ways. Light meats, soups and porridges, steaming pots of tea, coffee, chocolate, what have you.
His host, the smiling oracle, opened the doors to the balcony, welcoming the morning sun into the room.
"I trust you slept well then."
He looked around in awe of the lavish splendor of the room with white and scarlet curtains that accented the new day's light. His gaze paused on silverware that filled a cabinet and right beside it another filled with goldware. With mouth agape, his eyes met hers, a heavy sigh.
"I don't think I have much of an appetite, goddess."
"Hush, only the fools and rabble call me that. No matter how many times I tell them otherwise, they just do whatever they want to." She turned, leaning on the railing, "Oracle, Prophetess, better terms. This whole goddess business makes me feel so…" she pursed her lips, "…apostate."
Her graceful hand waved him to the large spread, , "Eat, blacksmith. They did not prepare all of this for me. And after that final match, you need to eat." Her lips curled, "And goodness I could stand not to eat so much every morning."
The golden light bathed her beautiful face, fingers tracing the marble banister, "I saw that fight. You were so… barbaric. So… enraged. So… purposeful." She turned to him, "And when you named your prize, an audience with the goddess." She nearly spat the words. "Well, I should be flattered. Not married, but happy, and you are way too young for me. But flattered."
He choked, "I did not mean…"
"Hush, I know." She tapped her temple, "Oracle, remember? You are here because you love someone, or think you are in love with someone, not too sure yet. Maybe because you have only known her for the better part of a day. But who am I to judge what love can do."
She sat on a high chair of solid oak with dark brown cushions, the centerpiece of the room, "Now, tell me the story, and I will tell you what you would want to know."
He collected himself and settled for a cup of tea, a bun covered with melted cheese, and a sunny egg, the yolk running down the buttery bread to his fingers. He stared at the tea for a moment then closed his eyes.
I was a blacksmith in a small town, Faard. It used to be a kingdom, or so I've been told. But now, all that remained is the town, some ruins picked clean, and an ancient tower time has forgotten. But the scholars have not, apparently.
Adventurers and explorers come by often, bringing their tools for fixing. Ruins and strange towers were good for business. I had money. The town was peaceful. I was well fed.
At times, some adventurers would bring back special treasures. Some were well enough to leave a minor piece, some rare metals here and there. Often, I was left with the remnants and shavings of their tools. I would gather it together, melt and shape them into music boxes and toys for the children of the town and passing caravans. I never charged for them. It only felt right.
About a month ago, the baker's daughter, lovely five-year-old Lia, came by. She often breaks the toy I gave her, a piece I am particularly fond of. An orb that opened into a flower, with a dancer that twirled eternally to the sound of Raindrops on the Sea Moon. It was the better part of mediocre, but she found it beautiful.
She ran for a hug, soot and ash flew all over with her embrace. She sneezed, shelves filled with tools shook. She brushed the dirt off with a laugh.
I kneeled before her, taking the orb and looking it over slowly. But from the corner of my eye, I saw the door slightly ajar. Someone was peeking in.
Lia jumped and ran to the door. She flung door with the bell atop ringing wildly.
It was her.
Lia grabbed her hand and dragged her into the shop.
"She's pretty, right? Like a princess."
Beautiful, I thought.
The princess bowed gently, her voice was soft, like silk and honey, "It is very nice to meet you."
"I don't know her name." Lia tipped up to my ear, "But she was lost."
The princess' eyes widened. She bit her lip and turned here and there, not knowing where to go. She clasped her hands, about to leave.
I touched her shoulder. "You can stay here, princess, until you can remember your way."
She smiled, but her eyes were cast down. She shook her head, a hand on the door. As she turned the latch, Lia ran to hug her.
"We may have just met," I brushed the dust from her shoulder, "but no place better to find a friend than a blacksmith's… shop?"
"Friend?" She placed a hand on Lia's head.
"Goodness, I could use more of those."
Lia nodded, pulling her arm to murmur, "He really does. Half of the people here fear him. 'cause he don't talk much. They think he's not all there in the head."
I cleared my throat, took a step atop her, and glared.
She tilted her head back, smiled wildly, "But it's true!"
I roared like a beast, grabbed Lia and sat her upon the counter. She squirmed and laughed. She turned to the princess, two hands pointing two fingers at a cushioned chair.
She ran a hand upon her pale skirt, the hem adorned with embroidery of silver flowers that flowed over ivory slippers. I was entranced by her every movement, her emerald eyes piercing, strawberry blonde hair weaving through the sunlight from the windows.
I began the work of tinkering with the orb toy, running through the same troubles when fixing mechanical toys given to little children. My audience was captivated. I was distracted by her floral scent. A click and a flush of dust, and the orb was brought back to life. The dancer returned to her eternal spin, dancing for her lover with songs of hope and longing.
Lia's eyes lit up. The princess beamed, a bit lip to hold back too much excitement. We listened to the orb and watched the dancer in silence.
Lia yawned, and shuffled to the princess, her head on her shoulder.
We spoke for what felt like but a moment, but the trail of the early afternoon sun to its setting would say longer. I told her about stories of passing adventurers and expeditions that have come by. She held on to my ramblings, and that sorrow that came from her presence now radiated calm.
I asked her of the past, and she fell silent. It could have been amnesia for all I know, but she said the strangest story. Her memories were kept in feathers that were scattered in all places, and, if you would believe, all dimensions. I could barely understand it, and I had a feeling she barely did as well.
"I don't know much of memories," I said, "But as much as they are precious to us, we always make more of them. Better memories, and better times. If we breathe, we can make the day better. To live for now, not drown in tomorrow."
A tear rushed down her cheek. "They're not just memories. They're my being. My life."
She brushed her eyes when the bell rang, and a large woman, whose head nearly hit the door frame, weaved in. She clung onto a taller man that had to lean down to enter, with large arms that burst and stretched his shirt, the baker and his wife. He carried a basket of savory meat and sweet-smelling raspberry.
"I hope she wasn't too much trouble." The motherly baker whispered, laying a hand on the princess, "Did you fix her toy? She's been loud about it all morning."
"How much do I owe you?" The burly father boomed.
"You? Pay me?" We laughed. He slapped my back and all the air that was in my lungs.
He placed the basket on the counter and was taken by surprise at the princess bowing from her seat. His eyebrows lifted, eyes shifted from the young lady, to me, and back again. He winked. My lips pursed, and I shrugged.
They left with a hug and hearty promise to see each other again tomorrow. The princess looked upon them long after the door was closed.
I opened the basket, setting out a pie that steamed with the scent of beef and cheese. She turned, drawn to the smell, a growl rumbling from her belly. She bit her lip at the sight peaking from the basket, of the cobbler red with raspberries.
"They make too much, often, and leave me with quite a lot." I said, "Would you care to join me for supper?"
She beamed a smile, so bright, it could turn the night to day. I said graces, and we began to eat. It had been quite a while since I had dinner that was lively. All I had were stories of other's adventures, and yet she kept asking about me. Not that there was much to say, but she wanted to know me.
The day had ended, and knowing the inns were full of adventurers and explorers at this time of the year, I offered her the bed upstairs. She tried to say no, vehemently shaking her head. But I pointed to the couch, the raggedy old cracked leather with stuffing popping out.
"I sleep there nearly every day. I barely even touch my own bed." I said.
She considered it, piercing eyes so accustomed to fear and sorrow gazed to mine, "I'm not sure I would wake if I slept."
"I'm not sure I could sleep either." I lied.
We sat in the workshop at the back and spoke through the long hours of the night. She had the most fanciful adventures, half of which I could not keep up with. I told her of sunrises and the people of the town. She asked about me. I did not have much to say, but she leaned on to what I did say. I kept myself awake by tinkering on a particular music box that lay around the shop, though speaking to her, I did not find the need to. I was just keeping my hands busy, to keep my eyes wandering, to not get lost in hers.
The sun rose, reaching into my window, and I had finished the box. It opened to a mechanical feather that seemed to flutter while it turned slowly to the tune of Warm Night Under the Moon Light.
We sat together, watched and listened. She placed her head on my shoulder. I took her hand and placed the box.
"A memory." I said, "It may not be the best, and it may not help you live. But it's mine."
She smiled through a tear that trailed on her cheek.
Suddenly, my door was shattered by a tall man clad in black. Stood with him in the doorway was another dressed in white.
"The thief still knows nothing of strength." The oracle said shaking her head.
He shrugged and fell silent.
She opened a fan and waived in a cool breeze. "Let me finish it all up then." She waived the fan and the room shifted into scenes from the past, "They left, and you could not contain yourself. You took whatever meager possession you have, set forth here to Shalem to fight in the King's Favor, and by some stroke of luck, though I would say more of providence, you won. Am I right so far?"
He nodded.
"Used the King's Favor to get to me, and here we are with your question." She smiled like a fox, "How will the blacksmith save the princess?"
He stared at the floor.
"Look at me, young man, or it does not count." Her smile widened.
He looked up to her hazel eyes that pierced and burned, "I want to save her life."
"Too much for you." She quipped, fanning herself faster, "Try again."
His brow furrowed, fist clenched, and murmured through grit teeth, "I want to save her life."
The oracle looked away, closing the fan in a swift motion, "I will give you one last chance, blacksmith. You can change your Favor, return home to Faard with great fortune. No longer to toil, or maybe you would want to work just for fun. Spend your time making toys for children, and still have plenty left over to live quite… very, very, ridiculously comfortably. Forget about her, get another woman, and live your life."
"What life is there to live if I can't live it to save her?" His voice resigned.
She stood silent, staring at him in all her regalia, and all her nobility. "What have you to offer?" The mirth and teasing in her voice gone.
"My memory." He said.
She set the fan on the table, "Not enough, not even for a one-way ticket to another world that holds these precious memories. Not for someone like you."
He looked down in thought.
"My memory from all."
The oracle fell silent, her gaze boring a hole into his very soul, before her voice carried the authority of heaven. "You will be forgotten by everyone. As if you never had existed."
"What would it all matter if I could not save her?" He said slowly, "If only heaven will be remembered for all that I have done, all my good be accounted to luck or fate or favor, take it all if I could only save her."
"Then all you will have left is the Almighty." She drew a deep breath, "So be it."
She tossed the fan, "One way ticket. No assurance of going back, no assurance of success. A hole in hell so deep. But perhaps the Ever present will have mercy."
He opened the fan, an embroidery of flames surrounding a three-headed beast, a hound chained to a tower. And above it, a feather.
"Prepare yourself, blacksmith. It will be cruel."
He sat atop a cliffside to wait on the rising sun, the sound of waves weaved around the winds. Before him was the fan, beside it was a long blade. On his side were carefully placed pieces of armor, set one over another, crafted with lining of wool within and asbestos between. He took in the morning air, closing his eyes. His mouth moved with a wordless prayer, then still.
He leaned back, stretching his legs, and strapped leather guards with metal plates sewn. The smell of vinegar was evident on the leather. He kicked and stepped to see the fit, checking the pinch here and there. Satisfied, he wrapped a padded wool coat around his form, then rustled into a chain shirt that reached to his knees. After checking the chains and fit, he wore a leather chest piece sewn with metal plates. He twisted this way and that. Content with the fit, he put on leather gloves, tailored with metal plates on his forearms. He clenched and relaxed his fists a couple of times, checking the movement around his arms.
Then he placed a wool cloak around his shoulders, flipped the hood on, and checked the hem. He finished with a leather mask and a hooked nose filled with slow burned charcoal.
He jumped, turned, twisted, checking the fit and motion of each part. He breathed a heavy sigh, leaning down to strap the long sword by his side, and fit the fan in his belt.
"Dressed to kill, are we?" The oracle said.
He turned suddenly, then nodded.
She walked closer to the cliff edge. "Whatever you plan to do young man, make sure the life you fight for is well worth it." Her voice, a stranger's voice, as if this was the first time they ever met.
He gripped the fan and steeled himself. He stepped closer to the edge, stood by her side, and watched the sun rise full over the ocean.
"Thank you." He whispered.
She raised a brow, "For what?"
Before anything else could be said, he leapt, the fan unfolding. He brandished it with vigor, the edges catching fire, burning into nothing in his hand. Below him opened a portal, with tendrils of flame reaching to him, revealed the tower and the sleeping three-headed beast.
He drew the long blade high, sending the piercing steel into the skull of the middle head. The force of the fall set the blade deep. His eyes wide looked down at the beast that had cushioned his fall and the crimson that rushed out.
It groaned and screamed. The two heads in a rage breathed out fire. He tried to pull out his blade, but it to broke in half, and he fell to the cracking floors. Unbearable fire raged all around him. Each moment brought greater challenge to breathing.
The head on the right, long haired and scarred, roared at his face. Had he not rolled aside, it would have bit off the lot of him. He bashed the eye with the hilt of the blade, a scream shaking his very core. The beast raised a paw and shoved him aside and sent him crashing against stone pillars.
He coughed and wheezed and tasted blood. He took in a hard breath and grasped to stand up.
The beast began its charge. He rolled forward, just under its step. It crashed over him, destroying the pillar. It leapt to turn, choked by a chain that kept it near the tower. Its sweeping tail rushed on him. He blocked with an arm, the force sent him flying, knocking the air out of him. He gasped, the smell of rotting eggs and burning filled his lungs.
The left head, almost indistinguishable, burned nearly all the way through with parts of bone revealed, breathed out flames in every way. He fell to the ground, covering himself with the cloak. He could feel the heat on his arms, but the pain did not have time to set in.
The scarred head let out a monstrous scream, with jaws that sought to devour him. He held the broken blade with both hands, and just as the teeth of the beast shredded his hood, he shoved the steel up the beast's throat. Blood rushed and soaked him, blood that choked its head.
He ducked under the maw, leaving it in its death throes.
The burned head awaited him, with a wide mouth, throat beginning to glow. With whatever was left in him, he ran as fast as his feet could take him, wrapping what was left of the cloak around him. The flames rushed, enveloped him, concealed him. Yet the force of his step took him just upon the glowing throat.
He screamed, fists beating on it. With each hit, the flames weakened, and blood rushed, flame blood that caught fire and rushed into the beast's throat. Its neck exploded, and he was thrown in a burning haze.
He could feel it now, the burns, his armor just char and embers. But in the midst of the crimson and flames that surrounded him, the pale white light emanated from atop the tower. The feather was there, and with nothing to stand between.
He crawled, breath by labored breath. His arms gave up
His legs pushed him inch by agonizing inch, digging his chin to pull him closer to the tower, to the feather, to her life.
Long before his will had given up, his body already had.
He did not know the moment when he stopped moving, nor the moment he breathed his last, but in between, with tears that burned his face, he prayed for her.
The princess watched as the mechanical feather bristled in song, smiling as it turned with the softest melody. Suddenly, it fell apart, the song slowly halting. She gasped, her eyes welled with tears. She tried frantically to piece it back together, then broke down in heaving breaths. She held the box close, embracing the ruined toy. She whispered under her breath and asked why she was crying at all. Her eyes could no longer bear to open, silent tears that would never cease.
A tall man clad in black stood behind her, "Looks like it isn't really much of anything."
Another dressed in white kneeled beside her, and took her hand, broken metal falling to the ground, "Do not worry, princess. It is quite a common toy. We will be able to find you another one."
She pulled her hand, picking up the pieces, pricking her finger on a loose screw.
A young man placed a hand on her shoulder, "Don't be sad. There are…"
"It does matter!" She shouted.
She watched as crimson trailed down her finger, falling unto the broken pieces of the box, her voice through a blur of tears, "He does matter…"