Michael Manning - Mageborn - The Blacksmith’s Son

Pinning her to the ground he drew out a small knife, “I’ll finish your kid with this after you’re dead witch!” His eyes held no trace of sanity. She tried to spit in his face but her mouth was dry and there was nothing left. Then an arrow sprouted in his chest. He seemed surprised, looking at it in astonishment. Dropping the knife he tried to pull it out when a second arrow appeared in his throat. He fell off of her, dead before his head found the road. Elena tried to get up, but nothing worked. She could hear her son crying as her sight grew dim. Darkness closed around her and she sank into oblivion.

Some nameless time later she awoke. She attempted to move and her collarbone shifted, grinding. The pain forced her into stillness and she lay there taking stock of her surroundings. “Don’t try to move. Your body has been through too much,” a voice said.

A woman sat beside the bed. They were in a small room, some farmer’s cottage perhaps by the look of it. She rinsed a cloth and placed it back on Elena’s forehead. “Your body is taken with a terrible fever. I thought for a while you might never awaken.”

Elena stared at her; the woman had a kind face, with strong features, “My baby…”

“Shhhh, don’t worry he’s ok. He’s right here. A good strong boy you have; he’s been crying lustily since Royce brought you in.” She leaned over and lifted Elena’s son from a makeshift bed they had set up in the room. Elena wasn’t able to hold him so the woman settled him beside her, where she could feel him with her hand.

“I need to tell you some things,” she started.

“Nah nah, don’t work yourself up. Your body is working hard to fight the fever. You need to rest. There will be plenty of time later,” the woman reassured her.

“No, there won’t.” Elena said, “I’m hurt deep inside. Down here…” She tried to gesture to her stomach but it hurt too much to move. She was tired, bone tired, but she kept talking, and slowly she explained who she was to the woman caring for her.

After a time she learned that the woman was named Meredith Eldridge, Miri for short, and her husband Royce had found Elena on the road. He was a blacksmith and had been on his way to take a cask of nails and other sundries to the castle at Lancaster. Fortunately he always took his bow with him on such trips. The two women spoke for over an hour before Elena could no longer continue and lapsed into a troubled sleep.

The next day her fever was worse but Miri still held out hope for her. Elena convinced them to let her have pen and paper but the struggle to sit up and write was almost too much for her. She fought her pain and weariness and eventually she found a position sitting at the table which didn’t hurt as much. Her left arm was useless but she could still grip the pen in her right, as long as she didn’t move it too far while writing.

She wrote two letters. One for her son, and a much shorter note to the Duke of Lancaster. At last Miri helped her back to bed, exhausted. “Don’t tell him Miri… not till he’s older.”

“What’s that love?” Miri tried to sooth her.

“Don’t tell him about me, till he’s older. Let him be happy. When he must know, give him my letter.” She was emphatic.

“Shush now, you can tell him yourself when you’re better. You’ll stay here with us and when you get your strength you can help me with the place,” Miri smiled and stroked Elena’s hair. “You just rest yourself, and someday soon we’ll have a picnic. Spring is here and it's so lovely out. The flowers are blooming and the air is full of sweet smells.” Elena fell softly asleep while Miri talked. She felt like a girl again, with her own mother singing her to sleep. After a while Miri got up and went to start dinner.

Elena never woke. She passed quietly away that night. Her son woke the Eldridges the next morning with his crying. It seemed he knew somehow that she was gone.

I never felt like an unusual child, which I suppose is true of everyone, at least up to a point. Growing up I was inquisitive and adventurous as most boys are, but as I grew my mother made some observations, “He’s a very quiet child.” I don’t remember the first time she said that, but it immediately struck me as true. In fact I was very introspective, despite my amiable nature and easy smile. As I got older she went so far as to describe me as someone born with an “old soul”, whatever that meant. Mostly I just thought a lot, which set me apart from the other children a bit, but not enough that I felt a difference or a gap. Looking back it seems clear that my native caution and introspective nature are probably what kept me alive.

My father’s name is Royce, Royce Eldridge, and he is a blacksmith by trade. I’ve often wondered if he regretted his vocation, since it seemed he loved horses more than metal and would use any excuse to slip away to the city to see the races. He had also spent a bit more money than would be wise purchasing high bred horses of his own. My mother, Meredith is her name, chided him about that, but she didn’t really mind. In truth she loved horses just as much and it was during one of his trips to see the races, as a younger man, that he had met her. Unfortunately after they married they were unable to have children, but as fate would have it my father found me years later, on another of his trips into the city. As he tells the story I was just a lone babe, abandoned on the roadside not far outside of town. My young mother had put me there, where I could easily be seen and heard, in hopes that some farmer’s wife might happen upon me. I’ll probably never know exactly why she chose to do so, but things have worked out well for me anyway, so I have never borne her any ill will.

Royce and Meredith were happy to have a child of their own and being an only child I got a bit more attention than most children. If my parents had been wealthy I would have probably been completely spoiled, but as it was I was simply happy. Most of our neighbors didn’t realize I was adopted, but my parents never kept it a secret from me. I was proud to be an Eldridge and I worked hard to please my father. He made a point of letting me watch him work in the smithy, familiarizing me with the tools and methods of his trade. I found the ruddy glow of hot iron fascinating, watching it slowly take shape under his patient hands. Being a smith’s son it was naturally assumed that someday I would follow him in the craft, and I had no objection. If things had turned out differently I might be working at a forge even now, happily shaping metal to make my living.

As I grew from a curious boy into an awkward adolescent it became apparent that I might have some difficulty at the work. I had many natural talents. I was unusually intelligent, something that most adults noticed within minutes of talking to me. I had a good eye for metal and a natural gift when it came to crafting or building. My hands were sure and skilled, an artist’s hands my mother called them. That lay at the heart of the problem; although I was long of limb, I was not particularly stout. I worked hard helping my father at the bellows but no matter how much my mother fed me I never seemed to fill out. It seemed I was doomed to remain a gangly youth forever. Still, I was skillful enough that given time I would probably have managed to become a competent smith, if not for what happened that spring, when the rivers were swollen with rain.