For a while, I believed I was forgotten. That my skill and my hammer and my forge were all lost, somewhere beyond myths and legends. Dark in the minds of man. For a while, I believed that they’d stopped telling the tale. Stopped speaking of my works. For a while, I thought I’d never have another visitor.
And then, he showed up.
And when he walked into my forge, he knew where he was going. What he was doing. I realized then that it wasn’t a matter of being forgotten, but, rather, a matter of being feared.
Why else would you memorize a land not of your own?
For the sake of keeping your head, yes?
As he approached my forge, his eyes shifted around the room. Cataloguing everything in sight. Ready for something to pounce, to jump at him. To make an attempt on his life.
He walked into my forge—my home—fearful.
Determined, and yet:
Very much afraid.
At least they’ve got that much right.
My works are nothing to scoff at. My hands building only the finest of beasts. My forge brutal, a fire that shows no mercy.
Mercy makes for weak metal, anyway.
For making creatures that are not-quite-so-mythical beasts.
There is no room for a cool fire.
Not in my forge.
He walked in, afraid, and yet…
He knew exactly what he wanted.
Though I don’t think he realized what kind of hell I’d have to make first, in order for him to get it.
Foolish mortals. Continue reading “Rise Again”