The last of the orange left the iron, beat away by the forger's hammer.
With his right hand, Merwel swung a hammer repeatedly at the metal; with his left he gently turned it so that where the rods joined, they ended together in one slightly twisted point. It was already turning out quite elegantly, really, but I could tell that it would lack some of his son's finesse. As the third rod was added, Golkyn's uncharacteristic absence from the forge was all the more evident in the way Merwel placed the metal almost haphazardly, only perfecting the angle after he had already fused the pieces together. In the end, the result was not terribly different, but it was this type of imprecision that set the work of the forger's apprentice above that of his master.
Not that I was one to judge, of course.
And besides, it made no difference. Every building in Baegard had at least one charm, and some had so many that I was fairly sure most people considered them mere necessities. They could be pentagrams, like this one, or asterisks, with five rods radiating out from the center. The construction could be simple or embellished, masterful or shoddy – none of it mattered, really, so long as the charm had five points.
Elves had particular admiration for the number five. Numbers, people said, were the one area in which the human race could ever impress the elven.
When Merwel had melded the final rod into place, he nodded at the boy who had been pumping the furnace that day. The boy stood up, took his cloak from the hooks on the east wall, and left the forge. I found my heart sinking as I watched him go – Golkyn must not have been coming, else the boy would have stayed to man the furnace for him.
“Come in, then,” Merwel called, removing his gloves and wiping his brow with his blackened sleeve. From where I sat, I couldn't see the door of the forge, so I held my breath, waiting for its signature creak. It didn't come. “You're just going to sit there?” he asked, as he turned around to face me.
I gasped – I couldn't help it. How in the Rasweald had he spotted me? This had always been my favorite nook in the whole city. Hidden behind the pile of scrap-metal behind the forge, I had crouched here for longer than I could remember – thinking myself invisible.
“You are stupid, aren't you?” The whites of his eyes glowed bright against his soot-blackened skin. The irises were dark brown – just like his son's.
He grunted and crossed his arms over his burly chest. Despite the long hours he could spend carefully shaping one piece of metal, outside of his work he was not known to be a patient man. I didn't particularly want to know what he wished to do to me, but I also didn't want to think about what would happen if I kept him waiting. I stood up and slid out from my nook. His expression had been unreadable – was he angry? Was this, perhaps, the reason Golkyn had not arrived yet? Probably, like everyone else, he thought I would bring him and his son bad luck.
I made my way over the piles of stone rubble and metal scraps to the forge door, finding it at least half a meter ajar. Bright orange warmth escaped through the gap, dissipating in the chilly outside air. I slipped tentatively through and found Merwel still standing, arms crossed, looking at the back wall. So he hadn't seen me after all – I had thought not; the peek-hole was far too small to be seen from the inside. How, then, had he known it was there? How had he known I was there?
I was going to exit quickly before he'd seen me, but as I backed out, my foot hit the pile of scrap-metal waiting to be melted down. A dull clang echoed through the little forge-room. Merwel spun towards me immediately. I pressed myself against the door, instinctively trying to be as invisible as possible. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes shooting holes in my mouth, then he grunted again and reached his hand into a leather pocket he wore tied around his waist.
“He thought you might come today. Here. He made this for your... birthday.” He forced the last word out as he shot his hand towards me, his eyes evading mine. I hesitated. Why hadn't Golkyn come himself? And if he couldn't come, what had convinced his father to deliver the gift? How did Merwel even know about it?
“He's been taken, stupid, if that's what you are gawking about.” His soot-blackened face was hard, and his eyes still didn't look at me as he thrust his hand forward again. “Here.”
Taken? Taken? The word oozed slowly into my brain and refused to be absorbed. An image sank in before the word did – of Golkyn being ushered off to the Rasweald by a court of elves. Their slender backs were erect under fine, billowing cloaks, and their faces were more unnaturally beautiful than ever. I could hear their singing, and see the way Golkyn's dark eyes clouded and the corners of his lips twisted in satisfaction at the cold, sweet sound....
“Augh!” Merwel half snorted, half gagged the sound and tossed the contents of his hand in my direction before turning back to his work. The gift landed with a clang against the metal that I had kicked, where I picked it up without hesitation.
In the dim light, my fingers recognized the object before my eyes had a chance to. My hand made a fist around it as I ran from the forge.
Taken. My thumb traced the dark surface of the charm, still unable to associate the word with his name. It was a star, made of five rods that were molded together around a small ring in the center. He had made the arms straight and smooth with a pointed curl to the end of each one. The whole charm fit easily in the palm of my hand. I could hardly imagine how much care it must have taken to form such a small thing so flawlessly. Could this charm have been the reason for his being chosen? Could the elves have seen his craftsmanship and realized that their race would benefit from his contribution? I knew elven reasoning was never so easy to understand, but I still couldn't shake the feeling.
After all, what was the purpose of charms if not to appease the elves?
I fished from my pocket a piece of strong, slender twine. It was so rare to find something beautiful in the streets of Baegard that when I'd seen it a few weeks before, I'd had to keep it. I used it now to tie the charm around my neck. The metal rested, cold and heavy, over my heart.
I stood up and set off farther up the hill, towards the Rasweald. Just then, I would have gone anywhere to get away from Baegard. Away from the filth-streaked white clay and stone buildings. The dark, winding streets of mud or uneven cobblestones. Mostly, I was getting away from the people. The hill was naturally too rocky to farm, and because nobody could find a better use for the land, the iron mine would dump its waste there. People rarely ventured onto the craggy, mullock-littered slope, so I could climb up it naturally rather than navigate by darting and hiding as I did in the city, ever afraid of someone noticing me.
“All because of your lip?” Golkyn had asked me once, as we sat in the forge one night after his father had left. Yes. All because of my lip. And the way people stared at it. And the things people blamed me for because of it.
“Isn't is curious,” they'd say, “that I see her run through the courtyard one day and sprain my ankle in the same place the next?” Or, “she stole a loaf of bread from the pub in the spring and in autumn the rats swarmed the kitchen like nothing I've ever seen!” They blamed me for my mother's illness and death, and swore that it was wise of my father, whoever he was, to never have made himself known to me. Someday, maybe, I would show them all that... that what? That I didn't bring a curse upon all I met? Even I was starting to wonder....
I was shaken from my wondering by my foot plunging into frigid water. I withdrew my step and almost cursed – until I realized where I was.
One does not curse in the Rasweald.
I had barely entered under the canopy of the trees, but already I was in a different world than the rank, crowded streets of Baegard. Gone were the groans and creaks of wooden machinery, the squeals and whines of children – the coarse, filthy, quarrelsome voice of the city. The only sounds in the Rasweald were the trills and chirps of birds, bugs, and small mammals, and the constant tinkle of water-droplets endlessly splashing into the forest floor. The slender trees were velvety with sage colored moss, their trunks growing straight out of the clear, sun-dappled water. The water itself was too cold to touch for more than a moment - and farther into the Rasweald it quickly became deep enough to drown in - but it was possible to walk through the forest by way of sections of mossy earth that rose out of the water and wound, path-like, through the trees.
The paths only went a few hundred meters into the forest before turning around and looping back. When someone was taken, people said, a path would appear for them, stretching beyond the reach of the others and leading far into the depths of the elven lair.
I chose the first path I saw and began walking down it, wondering vaguely if Golkyn knew I was there. Was that why I had come? To try and save him from the elves? The Rasweald encircled Baegard like a fortress, and the elves who inhabited it watched over our city, protecting us from whatever lay beyond. Maybe it was the fact that despite the lethally cold water all around (with which my foot still throbbed), I was pleasantly warm under the trees. Or maybe it was the intricate delicacy of the moss, or simply the overall serenity of the forest – whatever the reason, the Rasweald felt of elves. Of elves and of earth. And of the eternal bond between the two.
Even I knew the tale: in ancient times, the elves joined the battle against the earth when all else seemed lost, neutralizing the humans' mindless flames and soothing the humiliated land. There was nothing for the foolish, careless humans to do but surrender to the fabulous power of nature's army. And as thanks for the elves' service, the earth had granted their lair its most spectacular beauty.
If it hadn't been for the unearthly chill that came over the place at night, I probably would have abandoned the city long ago to live here. Surely Golkyn would have a better life here than he would have had in Baegard?
None knew exactly what became of people who had been taken by the elves. Some said the race reproduced by taking humans into the Rasweald and, by some mysterious rite, transforming them into elves. Others said they took particularly virtuous humans into their lair to live out the rest of their lives as honored guests. Be good, they would tell their children, and you, too, may be taken by the elves one day! But then there were the other theories, whispered in dark pubs and dirty alleys, that people were taken to be displayed as oddities for the entertainment of elven courts – or to be sacrificed to the terrible beast that lurked beyond the Rasweald.
In any case, most people agreed that whatever horror or humiliation might befall the person who was taken, and whatever sorrow was felt by their loved ones, was a small price to pay for the protection the elves provided our city.
Sometimes they would come in the middle of the day, singing in the streets, smiling and nodding their beautiful heads at everyone they passed until they found the one they wanted. Other times, people were taken in the dead of night, and nobody would know they were gone until morning. I wondered if Merwel had witnessed his son being taken. Had he tried to stop them, or had he stood stoically, knowing resistance was pointless, a solitary tear sliding down his rough cheek?
I stopped walking when I noticed something in the air. For it was no longer merely refreshingly clear; now it was spiced with a delicate sweetness.
The scent was unmistakable.
I craned my neck backwards to look up the unbelievably long, straight trunks of the trees. And there they were, in the high canopy. I could just barely see their slender bodies leaping around easily in the branches, gliding over the gossamer bridges between trees. I could hear the high, cold elven laughter like the far-off chiming of so many glass bells.
And then they started leaving the trees.
Long limbs wrapped around trunks, they slid easily down, their way made smoother by the soft moss. First two or three, then ten, fifty, soon hundreds of them were descending all around me. Everywhere I looked, I saw them flying downwards, their embroidered cloaks and long, fine hair fluttering around them. Their laughter filled the air, quieting the birds. When they reached the water, they did not splash, but rather barely made ripples as they landed on the surface and stepped lightly across it.
Towards me.
I had never felt so many eyes on me, let alone such bright, clear eyes as these. I found my right hand clinging to the charm around my neck. The first one to reach me ran a cool hand through my hair, laughing. It was not a cruel laugh, nor a mocking, or even humorous one. I doubt there was ever any word to describe the emotion of the elves, because I doubt there was ever a human who understood it.
Soon, they were all around me, their smooth fingers caressing my hair, my hands, my face – my lips. I had heard of elves healing a wounded foal, or returning vision to a blind child. Could they – would they – possibly...?
I closed my eyes, allowing the thousands of cool, slender fingers to support me.
And what would I do if they did? If all of a sudden I had a real face? I would no longer be afraid to be seen. I would talk and eat in front of anyone I pleased. I would do anything I pleased. The whole city would bow at my feet.
Then the elves started to sing. I had heard their song before, but not like this. The harmonies enveloped me, licking my ears with cool tendrils, caressing my very mind. And then I realized – I could live with the elves. They would welcome me gladly. I would live in their trees and dance and sing with them. After a few days of eating their food and living by their ways, I would become one with them.
And I would see Golkyn again! Only no longer would I be a pitiful girl helplessly accepting his charity – I would be his equal. And not only his equal; I would be one with him! For all elves were one. There could never be an elf, only... the elves.
As I thought that, their song erupted into such sublime, lilting peals that my heart quickened. And a crazy, wild possibility flashed through my mind – a future in which I would never be lonely again. Gone would be the shameful, deformed vagrant; I would be among the proud and elegant elves. I could forget completely about Baegard – already, the word felt strange and vulgar - leaving all the people who had ever mocked me to squander in the dank filth of the city's streets while I danced in elven courts high in the trees.
But there was something else, something whose tugging in the back of my mind could not be soothed even by the elves' song. I had always sought to blend in, to be indistinguishable from my surroundings. How was that so different from becoming one with the Rasweald, as the elves were? What if, instead, I went back to the city? Without my deformity, I would be capable of anything. I would become a hero to the city, gaining their trust merely by my confidence.
The song swelled and flowed, easing its way into my heart. Or, I thought, I could join the elves and in so doing win not only their trust, but also their love. The unconditional, immortal love of their unity.
Love... yes. What a beautiful notion. But would I not have the love of my people, if I was their hero? What if I were to win the love of the elves through the charm? I would make for them the most beautiful charm ever seen, each point more than a kilometer long, made from a fine, fractal-like pattern. They would be so taken with it that in return, they would transform Baegard into a splendid place with buildings of white marble and streets of shining gold. The charm would be the first ever bridge between the races, and because I was to thank for it, both elves and humans would flood me with love and gratitude. And finally, when our alliance was firmly built, we would together annihilate whatever it was that lay on the far side of the Rasweald. And humans would once again rein over the earth.
Only this time, the elves would not let us destroy it.
With this thought, I had expected to hear a sweet chorus of encouragement, but the elves' song was gone. Their hands had abandoned my body, and their scent was no longer detectable. All I felt was five aches in the palm of my right hand, where the points of the charm had been digging into my skin.
I opened my eyes.
Before me was the hill that lead down to Baegard – to the filthy buildings, rotted roofs and scuttling vermin, the clouds of insects. The dark streets bristling with people. So many people. So much coarse, dirty clothing and grimy skin. So many eyes, ears, minds – so many mouths. What had I done? I shook my head, instinctively taking a step backwards.
My heel was submerged in frigid water.
Cursing, I removed my foot. I'd let go of the charm in my shock and now it lay heavy over my heart, still warm from my grip. Slowly, I made my way down the hill.
My heel was throbbing from cold, but I forced feet to lead me down the slope and through the streets of the city. I willed my spine to be erect, my eyes to point straight ahead. I forbade them to notice the reactions of people I passed.
It wasn't long before I was at the forge door. It squealed loudly as I opened it, announcing my arrival better than a knock could have.
Merwel looked up from a mallet he was fixing and stared at me, his face characteristically unreadable. My chest was too tight, and my throat too dry to form words. Instead, I forced my body over to the hooks on the east wall and picked up the white apprentice's sash that was still hanging there. Merwel's eyes flashed.
Looking straight at him, I tied the sash around my waist.
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This was written for TIGERSPRITE's Magical Realism & Fantastic Contest. It is a bit longer than what I usually like to post on here, but I didn't have the heart to split it. Based on reviews I got here, and the input of some family/friends, I've just made some major edits to this.
Please feel free to be brutal.
Save it for after some more action?
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