Unwilling

A grown woman, at least by her own standards, Isabelle sat at the grind stone in her father’s forge. The large stone was being spun by the waterwheel being dipped into the river right outside the workshop. The river wasn’t the grandest, and Desmond, on more than one occasion, complained about the slow speed of the running water.

While she sharpened a costomer’s gladius blade to a razors edge, frequently spilling water on the stone and blade, Desmond, her father, stood at the forge proper. He pulled a long piece of steel in the rough shape of a sword from the pit of hot coals. With a rounded hammer, he forced the glowing hot material into shape with every hammer strike.

The high pericing strikes used to irritate Isabelle, after years of apprenticing under her father, listening to him work while sitting near the small flowing river was now one of her favorite sounds. Desmond taught his daughter the skills of a blacksmith as best he could, but she wasn’t nearly the master as he was. He always told her that some things come with time and to have patience. Isabelle hated being patient. Many blades met unfortunate fates to that down fall, and Desmond had a trunk of cracked and mishapened metal to prove it. He loved that trunk.

Once Isabelle deemed her blade sharp enough, she tested the edge against a spare leather strip. It cut straight through without resistance. She sheathed the blade and put the sword off to the side for it’s owner to come and retrieve it later. She approached her father as he placed the metal he was working back into the forge. “Finished with that traveler’s sword, Belle?”

“Yes, Papa. It’s ready when he comes and gets it. Am I finished for today?” She asked, hoping.

The aging man looked out from under the roof of his open air forge, and sighed. The sun was beginning to get low, and soon he would have to stop whether he liked it or not. He met her gaze, “You’ll be back before midnight?”

“Of course, Papa. And don’t worry, I’ll be with Merideth and Peter.”

Desmond put a soot covered hand to her cheek, “I’m your father, I will always worry.”

She put her hand to his, “I love you, Papa.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“I love you too, Belle. Midnight.”

“Midnight.” Isabelle agreed as she made a mad dash to the house. She needed to clean up before she met her friends for what would be her last night of childhood.

Tomorrow was Isabelle’s birthday, her twenty first to be precise. After tomorrow, Isabelle was allowed to find a husband, start a family of her own and even take over her father’s shop, once he decided to retire that is. Young men and women were still considered children until their twenty-first year by the rule of Fiona village, and only after such could they officially make decisions on their own, such are a few of the teachings of the god, Vas.

Isabelle had been looking forward to this her entire life. She was to finally earn her independence, and while she loved her father, she yearned for the chance to take life into her own hands. Also, she’s always fantasized about starting her own family.

She never knew her mother, but whenever Desomond spoke of her, he would often tell of her beauty and kindness. He also liked to talk about how she could chop down a tree with a sing axe swing. Isabelle often wondered what kind of woman she really was, and if she could do all the things her father said she could. The image she had of her mother was one of either a hulking giant, or thin woman with a terrifying temper. Desmond wouldn’t say. But regardless of her mental image of her mother, Isabelle wanted nothing more than to fall in love with a man just like her father and to be a mother. It was a simple dream, and very ordinary, but she was sincere.

While there was no rush, Isabelle couldn’t help but feel eager for the future. But those thoughts and feelings had to wait; after all, her friends were waiting for her.

————

When Isabelle left the workshop, Desmond pulled the blades from the heat and set them off to the side so they could cool slowly without stressing them. He’d finish them another time, for now, there was a project more pressing to be completed.

Desmond climbed on top of his anvil and pulled an object wrapped in cloth from the rafters over head. His heart ached every time he worked on the blade the dragon had commissioned, but if Master Ragis had been telling the truth, then this blade could be life or death for his daughter.

Unwrapping the cloth, a polished steel blade sat before him, unfinished. The blade itself was finished, a double edged long sword hardened and sharpened to the best of Desmonds ability. During its forging, Desmond used the mysterious powder the dragon had left behind in the small leather bag to forge the blade. The dragon had told him to use it in the forge itself, and he was astonished by the results.

Dusting the powder into the lit forge, the usual red fire and coals instantly turned a brilliant blue. The temperature of the fires never changed, but how quickly the metal heated up and fused together during it’s folds, Desmond had never heard of such a forge. He often wondered if this is how all the blades of the western continent were made, and if they could do this, what kind of techniques did they have.

While the blade was finished, the handle, guard and pommel was not. He had most of the pieces polished and ready for assembly, but he was reluctant to actually finish the blade.

The handle was oak, but would be tightly wrapped in fine tough leather to hide the dowel rods that will hold the handle and the guard to the tang of the sword.

Desmond placed the blade into a vice grip attached to his work bench, tang up. He placed the finished guard on the tang and gently hammered the guard down into a tight fit against the blade proper. The guard was a slightly curved and just as hard as a hammer, as it’s intended to be used as a battle hammer should the need arise.

The handle was next onto the tang. It slid on with little effort and Desmond pushed in three tightly fitting steel rods through the pre-drilled handle and tang. Getting rid of unnecessary excess material, he ground down the handle a bit further to get a flushed edge with the metal rods and leave room for a leather wrapping.

The end of the tang was threaded for the pummel to be screwed on and to give the entire handle a bit more support but to also act as a counter weight for the sword. Before he attached the pummel, he wrapped the handle in the finest leather he could afford and glued it in place with an adhesive made from grain. Wrapping it twice over, he hid and secured both ends at the bottom of the tang where the diamond shaped pommel will be screwed on.

Now, with the long sword fully assembled, and the glue taking its time to solidify, Desmond placed the finished piece on the workbench and took a step back to admire his work.

The blade was beautiful, the dim light of the setting sun reflected off the mirror bright surface of the metal. This was the best sword Desmond had ever made, and he doubted he would ever make another like it again. While this was essentially his masterpiece, and what should be his proudest moment of his career, he felt nothing but sorrow.

Desmond would rather throw the whole sword into the forge and let it melt and burn in the coals if it could mean his daughter wouldn’t have to leave tomorrow. He’d give up everything, his skills as a blacksmith, his pride as a man and even his life if it meant his daughter got to stay, or even choose for herself. He would never stop her if she chose to go of her own will, but he could never bring himself to tell her of the decision made by the closest thing to a god any mortal has ever seen.

The dragon claimed his life to be worth no more than his, but he still held the authority to make claim on another’s life. Over the past seventeen years, Desmond grew a hatred for the ancient beast, but he had no choice but to do as it had commanded. The dragon had said that the world he knew could end in just a few years, and giving Isabelle away could save them all. It sounded like a threat, but Desmond knew if the dragon wanted something, he could just take it, Ragis wouldn’t need to threaten him with a time line. There was a lot Ragis had not told him, and it was that that Desmond hated the most.

The disheartened father had stood there for three hours looking at the blade, watching the sun disappear behind the forest in the reflection of the bevels. Once the glue had dried enough to be handeled without shifting, he wrapped the blade in the cloth again and left his workshop by the river to visit his friend Trevor, the village’s leather worker.

Trevor lived with his wife, a seamstress, and two boys in the same building as his shop. I knocked on the his front door. A man a head shorter than Desmond greeted him. Desmond grew up with this man, and was only a few years older than him, but living with two boys for the past ten years had aged Trevor twice that. Gray shown in his bushy beard, his hair having betrayed him and fallen out. Desmond had offered making him a straight razor to finally shave off the remainder of his hair on top, but he declined every time.

Trevor was usually a very cheerful man, jolly and rosy cheeked, but tonight, he looked as distraught as Desmond. He had told the heavy set man years ago of his meeting with a dragon that had saved his daughters life and made a request of him. A month ago, Desmond gave him the final measurements of the long sword and commissioned a leather sheath. Desmond considered a metal sheath, but didn’t want to cause any unnecessary damage to the blade upon sheathing or drawing.

“Is it finished?” Trevor asked.

Desmond held up the cloth wrapped sword with dirty hands, “Just finished, old friend.”

He sighed and stepped back into the house, “Come on in, then. I have the sheath ready for you.”

“Thank you.” Desmond said as he entered his friends house.

The main shop occupied the bottom floor of the house, the workshop in full view in the back of the room. Stairs led up to the living area and where his children have already gone to bed. Trevor pulled a couple stools to the costumer counter. “Have a seat, Desmond.”

Desmond put the sword on the counter. Trevor unwrapped the cloth and examined the sword in light of a oil lanter over head. Despite the gloom he expressed, Trevor brightened at the sight of the blade. Even though they don’t share the same craft, a craftsman can admire another’s work.

“This is a fine blade. So many have crossed this counter for a leather sheath, but none like this one. I’d say this should belong to nobility.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather it not exist.” Desmond said, looking angrily at the sword.

“I understand your feelings, but you should be proud. Isabelle couldn’t have a finer weapon than this… But I don’t see your brand.”

“I didn’t add it. I don’t want my name on a sword I’m not proud of. I’d rather keep my daughter.” Desmond said, the shadows of the night hiding the tears filling his eyes.

Trevor stood and pulled a leather sheath and belt from under the counter, “Well, I hope if you don’t mind mine on this. I really like how this turned out, may I check the fit?’”

“Of course, that’s why I’m here.”

“Is that Desmond I hear?” Said Trevors wife Vivian.

Desmond put on a brave face and smiled up at the plump woman walking down the stairs, “Yes, it’s me, Vivian. How are you?”

She gave him a bright smile, but she was hiding pain behind that smile. Trevor told his wife what they had discussed, and Desmond couldn’t blame him. In Fiona, a husband and wife might as well be the same person.

“Hello, dear. You look so tired.” She said as she swept a hand through Desmond’s copper colored hair, gray starting to speckle the sides.

“And you look as young as ever.” Desmond said.

Trevor tapped his finger on the counter, “Now, Desmond, don’t go trying to steal my wife now. If you do, you’re taking the boys with you.”

“Oh, hush.” Said Vivian. She slapped his arm with a smile, “I have something for Isabelle as well. Please wait.”

Desmond and Trevor watched her trot back upstairs. Trevor picked back up the sword and placed it in the sheath, “By the gods, I’m good.” Trevor said.

The sword fell into the sheath smoothly and sits inside snug and tight. Trevor pulled the sword and put it back, testing the feel of drawing the blade. He couldn’t help smiling, “I am very good.”

Desmond looked up at him and couldn’t hide is smile either. Trevor had only gotten the measurements of the sword and hasn’t seen the blade in person until now. The leather sheath and belt were connected by a metal buttons and the buckle was black iron, which contrasted nicely to the light color of the leather. Other than the sheath, the belt had a couple colapsable pouches on the back. “How much do I owe you?” Desmond asked.

“You don’t owe us a single copper. After all that you’ve done for us over the years.” Vivian said, rushing down the stairs with a bundle in her hands. “Besides, we think of Isabelle as one of our own. She’s helped us so much with the boys while we worked, we owe you and her more than we’ve done. So think of these as thanks.”

She placed a cloak on the counter with a pair of knee high boots. The cloak was a deep purple, with a brass clasp, and the pull on boots had a leather strap with a black iron buckle above the calve. The good woman stood proudly over her creations, “Make sure you give these to Isabelle as well. She’s a good woman and we want her to be ready for anything.”

“Is this…” Desmond began to ask.

Vivian smiled warmly, “This was Lily’s cloak. She asked me to take care of it before she passed. Said to make sure Isabelle got it when she got older. I still had to alter it, Isabelle is a small woman compared to her mother.”

Desmond looked over everything, nearly brought to tears by their kindness, “There must be something I can do to repay you.”

“Nonsense.” Said Trevor, “You will do no such thing. Just let her know how much we love her and how much we appreciate everything you two have done.”

A tear fell down Desmond’s cheek, “I will. Thank you, so much.”

Vivian wrapped her arms around her husband’s arm, “Say, what is our darling fire doing anyway?”

Desmond wiped the tear from his face, leaving a black smudge across his cheek, “She’s with her friends tonight. I wanted her to have one last night of normalcy before her whole world changes.”

“Tonight’s the bonfire festival, isn’t it?” Vivian asked.

Trevor nodded, stroking his beard, “I believe so.”

“You know, Desmond, the bonfire festival is where you met Lily, right?” She asked.

Lily, Isabelle’s mother, was everything to him, that is until Isabelle was born, “Yeah, we did. I remember her looking so uncomfortable. Sitting around so many other couples.”

“You were just as unsettled, as I remember.” Trevor interjected.

“That’s because I was around the two of you. You couldn’t keep your tongues to yourselves.” Desmond retorted.

The plump couple blushed in unison. “Don’t be crude.” Vivian said with ice in her tone.

Desmond and Trevor laughed.

————

Isabelle sat next to her friends Peter and Merideth, unable to keep their tongues to themselves. She felt incredibly awkward next to the couple, and she couldn’t help but wonder when the two of them had developed feelings for each other. Just the other day, the two of them were constantly bickering over the smallest thing. Now how was she supposed to act around them? Was she supposed to show support, or leave them alone?

Opting to give the two some privacy, Isabelle decided to take a walk around the small festival. Every year, the village puts together the bonfire festival to celebrate the harvest season’s end. This year had been good for the village and no one will have to go hungry this winter. While the festival was to celebrate the harvest, it was well known for a place for young love to blossom.

Isabelle’s father had met her mother at this festival, so she thought that with some luck, she would meet her future husband here as well. However, while there were quite a few good looking men gathered around the raging fire, each of them were accompanied by even more attractive women.

A wave of insecurity filled her mind. Isabelle pushed back her curly red hair, tying it into a pony tail. It was warm tonight, and the heat of the fire only added to a cloak or hood being unneeded. Even so, she wished she had one to hide her hair. No one other than her father had red hair in the village. All the other villagers had black or brown hair and that only made Isabelle stand out like a soar thumb.

Isabelle opted to take a seat on the circle of half-log benches positioned around the bonfire, smoothing out wrinkles in her plain brown dress. She watched the licks of flames dance along charred wood, trying to ignore the hord of couples. The fire snapped and popped as smoke drifted heavily into the night sky. When Isabelle looked up, she couldn’t see the stars. The light of the fire was so intense, the stars couldn’t produce enough light to shine through.

“Isabelle?” A familiar voice said, “Isabelle darling, why are you all alone?”

She turned her head to see one of the village elders, Celine. Her gray hair framed her wrinkled face and rested over her shoulders. She wore a brown dress, similar to Isabelle’s, but hers had silver thread embroidery around her neck and across her chest to symbolize her authority and experience in Fiona.

“Good evening, elder Celine. Are you well?” Isabelle said, deflecting her question.

Celine sat next to the young woman and smiled. Isabelle still couldn’t believe someone of Celine’s age could retain all her teeth and keep them white as snow. Celine put her hand on Isabelles, “Isabelle, I asked you a question.”

Isabelle sighed, “I’m sorry, elder Celine. I was only giving Merideth and Peter some… privacy.”

“Merideth and Peter? Ha. I would have never guessed. I remember the two of them constantly fighting as children.” Celine laughed.

Isabelle could remember a time when Merideth, a small black haired girl, threw a rock at a mocking little boy with auburn brown hair. Isabelle had followed when Peter was taken to the village healer, bleeding from the head, and being escorted by no one other than Merideth. As much as they fought, looking back on it, Isabelle could see how much they cared for one another, but couldn’t figure out to express it. Isabelle only wished they hadn’t chosen this night to make her the third horse on a two horse wagon.

“Elder Celine?” Isabelle asked. Celine gave a hum for Isabelle to continue, “Did you have a family?”

Isabelle had never seen Celine with a husband, or children of any age, so she was curious. Celine smiled, her teeth not showing anymore, “I was married, many years ago. He was such a handsome man, and I was quite the looker too. Ah… You should have seen him, the great ‘protector of the village’.” She threw up her hands as if she could touch her memories, “We met in the river, the one your father’s forge sits next to. I was trying to catch some fish to give my older sister for her engagement dinner, and I fell in. I wasn’t in any danger, the river wasn’t any deeper than it is today, but when fell in, there he was with his hand out for me. The sun shined behind him and I thought the gods had come to take me away, only they didn’t take me, but gave me something to love and to cherish.”

“Sounds wonderful, Elder.” Isabelle said with a bright smile.

“It was wonderful, for a time. We were married a year later, and we had built the house I live in today, together. And for a few years, we lived together in love and pain. I loved every moment; every night, every meal, and every fight.”

“You fought with your husband?”

Celine laughed, “Ha, of course we fought. Every couple does, especially those who are truly in love. That is when you know when you are in love, when you want to strangle your spouse when they are being ignorant, and you want them to be better. That is love, my child. It is a fight, and if you will not fight for your love, then it is not real love.”

Isabelle looked into the fire, fantasising herself in similar situation, “What happened to him, if I may ask?”

“You can ask me anything, my child. It’s my job as an elder to give wisdom to you younger tikes. My husband was one of the village guards, and he received the legacy of ‘The Protector of the Village’ after he fought off a group of bandits that threatened Fiona. He stopped ten vicious men, all on his own. I was so proud of him when he came back into the village victorious. But he was wounded, horribly. He passed away three days later from infected wounds. I attacked the healer I was so heart broken.” Celine looked up into the fire, looking like she was holding back tears, “But that was around sixty years ago now. I still get a little choked up about it, but don’t fret, I love to talk about my sweet Hector. So, if you want to hear more later, come by anytime.”

“I will, elder Celine. I know I could learn a lot from you. You’ve given me much to think about.” Isabelle said.

“I never had children of my own, so it would make me happy if you came by. And don’t worry, whether it is tonight, or in the future, you will find a love worth fighting for.” Celine said.

Isabelle blushed, the elder had seen through her like glass. Celine stood and walked away, not saying another word. The elder dissapeared into the crowd of people and a small surge of hope filled her chest. Despite her quick entry, lengthy and spotty story, and her quick departure, elder Celine had done what she had set out to do and give hope to the new generation about to enter adult hood.

And so the night went on. Peter and Merideth finally realized after an hour that Isabelle and disappeared and sought her out. Upon finding her, they spent the remainder of the night talking, eating and drinking with the rest of the village. Eventually the bonfire dwindled and became no more than a whimpering camp fire, which marked the end of the festival.

Isabelle still had time before midnight, but she was getting tired, and there would be time for more celebrations another time. After she said her goodbyes to her now coupled friends, she made her return to her father’s home. She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t disappointed that she was returning home unacquainted with a suitor, but like the elder said, Isabelle won’t be alone forever.

Desmond was sitting out in front of their home, carving a small woodland animal from a piece of wood. Her father only whittled when he was thinking about Isabelle’s mother. She asked him why he would look sad when he made such cute little creatures, and he told her that her mother had taught him how to carve wood like that, and everytime he was lonely or needed strength, he would whittle and think of her. Isabelle wished she could have met her mother, someone that could make such impact on a man like her father must have been someone worth knowing.

“Papa… Are you okay?” Isabelle asked, stand next to him.

Desmond watched a small wood shaving fall to the ground and sighed. He looked up at his daughter and Isabelle had never seen such anguish on his face. She asked him again if he was okay, and he hesitated to speak, “Isabelle… My sweet fire.” He dropped his knife and gently held her hand, “I have something important to tell you.”