The Blacksmith's Son
Ravendale was a quiet village once, located between hills of green and forests that were quiet. It now exists in ruins, ravaged by monsters that struck without warning. Streets that had once been filled with children at play and neighbors in conversation are empty and cracked.
There was a chill wind blowing through shattered windows of abandoned houses, carrying dust and the memories of what had once been. Once lively and vibrant, the marketplace lay now in shambles, a heap of splintered wood and strewn goods.
In the center of the town square was a massive oak tree, hundreds of years old and once the centerpiece of Ravendale. The tree was now twisted and broken, its bark scorched in spots, its branches warped into unnatural positions.
"They said monsters could not come this far into the country," a visitor had muttered a few weeks prior, his face wide with fear. "They said Ravendale was safe."
"They were wrong," was all the survivors could manage as they periodically came back to rummage over what was left of their homes.
The scariest part of Ravendale was the quiet. Where there had been the noises of everyday life, now there was nothing.
Into this vacant village strode a young man by the name of Aelar. Unlike the frightened travelers that occasionally came through Ravendale, Aelar strode with determination.
"Near home," Aelar told himself, readjusting the strap of his leather pack. Inside were tools—not new or elaborate, but old and worn from battle.
Even in the destruction surrounding him, Aelar was optimistic as he trudged down the familiar route to the village center. He pushed open the groaning door of his parents' old cottage.
"Father?" Aelar shouted. "I'm home with the things you requested."
As Aelar entered, dust stirred up from the ground beneath his scuffed boots. The air was stale and deserted. But the idea of seeing his father, Rioran, reassured him in this bleak environment.
"Father?" he called again, setting down his bag with care.
A sound coming from the rear room prompted Aelar to grab the blade at his belt—a reflex learned through years of living under threat. But he relaxed as he heard his father's heavy gait.
He moved towards the kitchen, looking forward to his father. Upon entering, he listened to the clinking of cooking utensils. Rioran was positioned near a makeshift stove, his tough demeanor reflecting in his upright stance in spite of the adversity evident on his face.
Rioran turned, and a friendly smile crept over his weathered face.
"Father," Aelar spoke gently, not wanting to disrupt this semblance of normalcy in their troubled world.
"Aelar, you're home," Rioran exclaimed in his harsh but friendly tone. "I've been cooking for your arrival." He nodded toward a steaming pot on the stove. "Sit down. Dinner will be ready shortly."
"Smells wonderful," Aelar replied, sniffing deeply. "I hadn't anticipated a warm meal following my travels."
"Did you think I'd let you come home to cold food?" Rioran chuckled, stirring the pot. "Even now, we can have some comforts when we celebrate your safe return."
They didn't have a proper table or chairs, but they had become accustomed to such issues. Aelar sat on a turned-over crate, observing his father cook.
"Father," Aelar said with a thankful smile as he grasped for his pack, "I discovered some weapons in the surrounding villages—a shattered sword, a spear, a bow, and a knife." He arranged them meticulously on a white cloth. "I thought we could build something strong with them."
Rioran inspected each weapon with trained eyes.
"You did good, Aelar," he said, lifting the shattered sword. "These blades can be repaired, but they hold promise. I'll forge them." He set the sword down gently. "No need for you to concern yourself with that."
"I want to assist," Aelar pressed. "I've watched you work for years. I believe I'm capable of doing more than working the bellows and retrieving tools."
Rioran studied his son intently, noticing the resolve in his eyes.
"Perhaps you are correct," he said after a while. "You are no longer a child, though there are times when I forget that." He smiled. "Eat first. We can discuss your place in the forge later."
While they ate their plain but satisfying dinner, Aelar spoke of his journeys.
"The town to the east is entirely vacant," he explained between spoonfuls of stew. "Not even scavengers remain. But I discovered this sword buried beneath what had to be their blacksmith's building." He gestured at the shattered blade. "The metal is still usable. It will serve us well."
"And the inhabitants?" Rioran inquired softly. "Did you encounter any during your journey?"
Aelar's expression grew dark. "Few, very few. They who live hide themselves, Father. They're afraid, more afraid than we are."
"We possess something that they do not," Rioran said gravely. "We have purpose."
"What purpose is there in a monster-ridden world?" Aelar asked, revealing a rare doubt.
Rioran reached across their temporary table and placed his calloused hand on his son's shoulder. "To rebuild, Aelar. To strike back. To reclaim what was stolen from us, not only for ourselves, but for all those who have lost all."
Aelar nodded slowly, taking courage from his father's fierce conviction. "You're right, Father. As always."
"Not always," Rioran chuckled. "Just often enough to keep us alive."
They ate in warm silence, the only noises being their spoons clinking against the bowls and the occasional fire pop.
"You're doing very well, Aelar," Rioran said as they finished cleaning up from dinner. "Assist me while I work at the forge, and learn. In time, you'll be forging your own potent weapons."
"I will, Father," Aelar vowed, his uncertainty now determination. "I won't disappoint you."
The flames danced, sending a warm light over the kitchen that chased the shadows back from around them. At that moment, in spite of the devastation that lay around them, father and son created something new, not only building swords but a connection that would endure the darkness that had descended upon their village.
Weeks became months, months became years. With Rioran's instruction, Aelar's proficiency at the forge increased rapidly. The ring of hammer on anvil became a steady beat, a pulse in the quiet village.
"Keep your wrist firm but not too tight," Rioran told one afternoon, observing sixteen-year-old Aelar shape the hot metal. "The hammer should be an extension of your arm, not a tool in itself."
"Like that?" Aelar tightened his hold, swinging the hammer down with improved control.
"Better," Rioran said, nodding in approval. "You see, metal speaks to you if you pay attention. It informs you where it needs to be forged, where it must be harder."
"I can hear it now," Aelar grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It's telling me it wants to be the greatest sword Ravendale has ever known."
Rioran grinned, something he did more frequently now that Aelar's skill and confidence were increasing. "Then we'd best not let it down."
Having spent sixteen years studying with his father, Aelar, a young man with weathered hands and resolute eyes, stood next to a sword he had forged himself. It was plain but beautiful, weighing heavy in the palm of his hand as if it were an extension of him and not an independent object.
"It's done," he exclaimed in wonder, barely able to believe that he had created such a lovely weapon himself.
Rioran approached, studying every aspect of the sword—the edge of the blade, the balance of the hilt, the little decorative flourishes that Aelar had included as his own signature.
"Well done, Aelar," Rioran said, beaming with pride as he gazed at his son's handiwork. "This sword is yours now."
Aelar felt overwhelming joy at those words. Years of practice, failures and corrections, burns and cuts, and exhaustion, all leading to this moment of pure achievement.
"Thanks, Father!" Aelar couldn't hide his happiness, his smile wide across his face. "It's a dream come true."
He practiced the sword swing, discovering how beautifully weighted it was, how it sliced through the air with little noise. This was a weapon beyond simple use; it was a symbol of all he had learned, of all that he had become at his father's hands.
Rioran observed his son with pride and something else, a choice he had pondered for a very long time. At that critical moment, with the new sword gleaming in the sunlight, something shifted between them.
"Aelar, my son," he started, his tone revealing that he had made a significant choice, "would you like to undertake a journey? A true adventure outside these walls."
Aelar lowered the sword, staring at his father in shock. "A journey? Beyond Ravendale?"
"Yes," Rioran nodded, his expression grim but eager. "It's time you got to see more of the world than these ruins. There are places where life continues, where people build and create and struggle rather than simply survive."
The thought of leaving the only home he'd ever known, even one as dysfunctional as Ravendale, would have intimidated some. But to Aelar, who had been confined by circumstance rather than choice, the offer was like opening a door to limitless opportunity.
"Yes, Father!" he said, practically bouncing with excitement. "I'm ready for it!"
Rioran grinned, obviously delighted by his son's enthusiasm. "Then we'll start preparing immediately. Bring only what's absolutely essential—your new sword, naturally, and perhaps a few of our finest pieces to exchange if necessary."
"Where are we going?" Aelar inquired, already making mental preparations for what he would take on such an adventure.
"You'll find out," Rioran answered cryptically. "Just get ready for now. We depart at dawn."
The following days were hectic as they prepared to depart. They collected supplies, packed weapons carefully, and locked the cottage as securely as possible against the elements for the duration of their absence. Aelar was barely able to suppress his excitement, bombarding his father with questions which Rioran replied to patiently with a wry amusement.
"Will there be other blacksmiths where we're going?" Aelar asked as they worked.
"Yes, many," Rioran answered. "Some with other methods than ours. You may learn new ways."
"And swordsmen? Actual warriors who know how to handle the blades we produce?"
"Yes. You'll witness sword fighting beyond your wildest dreams."
On the day they departed, they stood beside a broad river, a solid boat ready to carry them to foreign lands. The boat, not elegant, but strong and seaworthy—yet another testament to Rioran's skill.
"You built this?" Aelar queried, tracing his hand over the smooth wooden hull.
"Last year, while you were sleeping," Rioran admitted. "I wanted to surprise you."
"It's incredible," Aelar stated, taking in all the details of the boat that would take them on their new journey.
As they loaded their things aboard, Aelar leaned over the edge of the boat, awestruck at the endless water before them. His brown hair whipped about his face in the wind as he filled his lungs with the sea scent, taking in deep whiffs of the salty air.
"The sea is so huge and tempting, Father," Aelar said, grinning in awe as he saw sunlight play upon the waves like spilled diamonds.
Rioran, too occupied with last-minute preparations, glanced up at his son's words, a fleeting smile relaxing his otherwise stern expression. "Yes, Aelar," he answered, his tone enthusiastic like his son's. "We're sailing to a new horizon."
There was a sense of freedom in the moment, standing between the familiar, however brutal, and the unknown, however questionable. Aelar felt anticipation coursing through him, a preparedness for whatever was to come.
"Ready to set sail, Father?" he asked with eagerness, already picturing the adventures in store for them beyond the horizon.
"Almost ready," Rioran replied, making final preparations so their journey would be as safe as possible. "Prepare yourselves."
Aelar gave a final glance at the shore, at the faraway outline of Ravendale just visible through the morning fog. He was not sad to depart, but his burning interest in what lay ahead.
"Where are we going, Father?" he asked with wonder.
Rioran stopped what he was doing, a reflective smile on his face as he pondered his response. "We're going to Padas, my son," he said at last, the name having a significance that Aelar did not yet comprehend. "It was where an old friend of mine resided—a master swordsman who could teach you far more than I ever will."
Something in his father's voice led him to believe that there was more to this trip than a casual visit, something more that Rioran wasn't ready to hear. But Aelar had grown patient in the years since his learning had begun, and he knew that his father would reveal what he must when it was time.
"In Padas," Rioran went on, his eyes far away as if looking beyond the horizon line, "you can encounter live people, not only specters of the past. You can look at a world where folks live freely. It's where folks like ourselves can still belong."
His dad's cryptic words may have left another confused, but Aelar knew better than to try to sort out Rioran's occasional strange manner of speech.
"Meet actual people, although they are no longer around?" Aelar questioned, attempting to grasp his father's words.
"Yes, my son," Rioran nodded, his face grim yet optimistic. "In Padas, you will see people like us and you, as if they didn't depart at all."
"I don't get it," Aelar conceded, baffled. "How can individuals be gone but also be there?"
Rioran placed a hand on his son's shoulder, reassuringly. "You'll see when we arrive. Some things you have to experience in order to believe."
When the boat finally moved out, slicing through the water with ease, Aelar felt excitement like he never had before. The sea wind toyed with his hair, and he closed his eyes, savoring the salty scent that promised freedom and possibility.
"What's Padas like, Father?" he asked, anxious to hear more about where they were headed.
Rioran's eyes glistened with remembrance and enthusiasm as he answered, his voice acquiring nearly magical tones that mesmerized Aelar. "Padas is a land beyond the horizon, a hidden sanctuary where life teems wild and free. We are going to the legendary abode of swordsmen, where the craft of the sword is not a skill but a tradition that will be eternal."
"It sounds like something from the old stories you used to tell me," Aelar said, fascinated by the description.
"In many ways, it is," Rioran agreed. "But unlike those stories, Padas is very real. And soon, you'll see it with your own eyes."
The vessel slid quietly across the water, father and son aboard, sailing into an uncertain future. Ravendale's ruins dwindled out behind them, but what they had learned there—of survival, of not giving up, of the impenetrable connection between them—would stand them in good stead on adventures yet to come.
"Father," said Aelar, after many moments of silence, his words soft against the soft lapping of water against the vessel, "do you believe we will ever go back to Ravendale?"
Rioran didn't reply at once, his eyes on the horizon in front of them. When he did, his voice was measured and reflective. "The path we are beginning, Aelar, is not merely one of distance traveled, but of transformation. Whether or not we return to Ravendale physically, we will never be the same men who departed this day."
Aelar nodded consideringly, knowing that his father was referring to something beyond geography. When the coastline faded entirely from sight, filled only by the limitless expanse of water meeting sky at the horizon, a shiver of anticipation ran down Aelar's spine. Whatever lay in store for him in Padas, he knew that it would alter his life forever.
"I'm ready," he whispered, more to himself than to his father, his hand resting on the handle of his newly forged sword. "I'm ready for whatever comes next."