The Lost Feather (2021) [PG-13]

[Iesu]

This is a rewrite, to test out how I have grown, and to have fun with an old story that I am particularly fond of. I pray you find joy in this short story.
https://www.fanfiction.net/~iesu

***

He sat before a small round table, a banquet spread before him with fruits of all kind, some even tropical. Eggs cooked in multiple ways, light meats, soups and porridges, steaming pots of tea, coffee, chocolate, what have you. And his host, the smiling oracle, attending to a bunch of green grapes, picking one at a time.

"You're not eating?"

She stood, opened the doors to the balcony, the morning sun's rays gently lighting the room.

"I trust you slept well then."

He shook his head out of a trance, looking around, almost not knowing where he was.

He breathed a heavy sigh, "I don't think I have much of an appetite, goddess."

"Hush, only the fools and rabble call me that. No matter how many times I tell them otherwise, they just do whatever they want to." She turned, leaning back on the balcony railing, "Oracle, Prophetess, better terms. This whole goddess business makes me feel so…" she pursed her lips, "apostate."

She pointed at the large spread, a wave of a gentle hand, "Eat, blacksmith. They did not prepare all of this for me. And after that final match, you need to eat." Her lips curled, "And goodness I could stand not to eat so much every morning."

She looked back at the rising sun, wistfully trailing the soft clouds riding winds, "I saw that battle. So… barbaric. So… enraged. So… purposeful." She turned her gaze to him, "And when you named your prize, an audience with the goddess." She nearly spat the words. "Well, I should be flattered. Not married, but happy, and you are way too young for me. But flattered."

He leaned back, chuckled under his breath, "I did not mean…"

"Hush, I know." She tapped her temple, "Oracle, remember? You are here because you love someone, or think you are in love with someone, not too sure yet. Maybe because you have only known her for the better part of a day. But who am I to judge what love can do." She returned to her seat, a high chair of solid oak, with dark brown cushions that shaped on her perfectly, "Now, tell me the story, and I will tell you what you would want to know."

His mouth held agape, eyes wide with surprise. He collected himself, looking around at all the food before him. He settled for a cup of tea, and a bun covered with melted cheese and a sunny egg, the yolk running down the buttery bread to his fingers.

"She is beautiful and kind." He licked his thumb. "Very kind. Very beautiful."

…

I was a blacksmith, in Faard, a small town. It used to be larger, in some age long gone and forgotten. But now all that remains is the town, some ruins that had been picked clean for who knows how many times now, and an ancient warlock tower that time has forgotten. But apparently, the scholars have not.

We often had adventurers and explorers bring in their tools for upkeep. Ruins and strange towers were good for business. The money was good. The town was peaceful. I was well fed. I had money.

Plenty of interesting people came into my shop. At times, they would bring back some special treasure they found. Some liked me enough to leave a few lesser pieces, some rare metals here and there. But most of the time, I was left with the remnants and shavings of their tools. I would gather it together, melt and shape them into music boxes and toys for the children of the town and passing caravans. I never charged for them. It only felt right.

About a month ago, the baker's daughter, lovely girl about five or six, came into my shop in a shouted song, "Brosmith, it broke!"

Don't laugh, I did not come up with the name.

I remember the toy I made her. It was a piece I was particularly fond of. An orb that opened into a flower, with a dancer that twirled eternally to the sound of Raindrops on the Sea Moon. I could barely remember what dancers looked like, and my lute skills are sub par at best, but translating the music to the mechanism worked out well, and the dancer looked pretty enough, I suppose.

"You run around with it too much!" I shouted the song back.

She giggled, running for a hug. Soot and ash flew all over with her embrace. She teetered back and sneezed, the shelves filled with tools shook and rattled. She giggled again, brushing the dust off her skirt and arms. I dropped to the floor, taking the orb and looking it over slowly. From the corner of my eye, I saw the door slightly ajar, a form peeking in.

The little girl jumped and ran to the door, "I almost forgot!" She shouted, flinging the door open, the bell atop ringing wildly.

It was a young lady. It was her.

She was dragged into the shop by the baker's daughter, "Brosmith, meet my new friend! She's pretty, isn't she?"

Beautiful, I thought.

She bowed gently, her voice was soft, like silk and honey, "It is very nice to meet you."

"Pleasure is mine." I smiled, "Adventurer?"

Her lips parted in thought, with just a breath in reply.

I whispered to the little girl. "But did you even ask her name?"

"She never said it." Her whisper was louder, I suppose not really a whisper. "But she was lost."

The young woman looked upon us, and bit her lip. She turned, about to leave.

"Miss, you can stay here." I almost shouted. "Until you find your way."

She smiled a gratitude, shook her head in hesitation. She placed a hand on the door. As she turned latch, the little girl ran to hug her.

"We may have just met. But no place better to find a friend than a…" I spun my eyes around the soot and dust covered room, the neatly but randomly placed weapons and tools on shelves, and breathed out, "…a smith's… shop?"

"Friend?" She placed a hand on the little girl.

"Goodness, I could use more of those."

The little girl nodded, whispering to her, "He really does! Half of the people here are scared of him! 'cause he don't talk much, they think he's not all there in the head."

I cleared my throat, and stood atop her, glaring.

She tilted her head back, smiled wildly, "Brosmith! Brosmith! Fix, fix, fix!"

Don't laugh, I did not come up with the chant.

I roared like some beast, grabbing her and sitting her upon the counter. She squirmed and laughed. She turned to the young lady, two hands pointing two fingers at a cushioned chair.

The young lady laughed, running a hand lightly upon her pale skirt, the hem adorned with a brocade embroidery of silver flowers, accented by her ivory slippers. She was graceful in step, patting the little girl's head. She sat and looked upon me with a smile, her emerald eyes piercing, strawberry blonde hair weaving through the sunlight flowing from the windows.

I sat upon the bench across, tinkering with the orb toy, making soft clinks on the metal. They watched intently my every movement. I tinkered and poked, the mechanism forming back to as good as it was. A click and a flush of dust, and the orb was brought back to life, the dancer in her eternal turn playing to the melody, dancing for her lover with the songs that bards play on the night of hearts festival.

The little girl's eyes lit up. The young lady smiled brightly. My heart fell.

We spent the next moment listening in silence, watching the dancer dance. The little girl yawned, and shuffled to the young lady's lap, leaning her head on her shoulder.

I offered her tea, and some cookies, baker's sweets often left by the little girl's mother. No surprise, bakers and smiths understand each other, working with ovens as much.

We spoke, the young lady and I, with the little girl rocking in her arms. Small things, mostly, stories of passing adventurer's and expeditions here and there. I spoke more, perhaps a bit too much. I would not know, for her attention held for what was quite a long time.

I asked her of the past, and she fell silent. It could have been amnesia for all I know, but she said the strangest story. Her memories were kept in feathers that were scattered in all places, and, if you would believe, all dimensions. I could barely understand it, and I had a feeling she barely did as well.

"I don't know much of memories," I said, "But as much as they are precious to us, we always make more of them. Maybe make even better memories, and better times. As long as we have breath, then we can make the day better. To live for the now, and not drown in tomorrow."

Her eyes remained on mine. A tear rushed down her cheek.

She confided in me, they were not just memories. They were her very being. Her life.

I could not look away. What I would have given to take her sorrow away.

She quickly brushed the tears from her eyes when the door bell rang, and a motherly woman weaved in, a large woman, whose head nearly hit the door frame. She clung onto a taller man that had to lean his head to get in, with large arms that burst and stretched his shirt, the baker and his wife. He carried a basket of sweet smelling meat and raspberry of sorts.

"I hope she wasn't too much trouble." The motherly baker whispered, laying a hand on the young lady, "Did you fix her toy? She's been loud about it all morning."

"How much do I owe you?" The burly baker boomed.

"You? Pay me?" We shared a laugh, and he slapped my back and all the air that was in my lungs.

He placed the basket on the counter, and was taken by surprise at the young lady. His eyebrows lifted, a knowing look. His eyes shifted from the young lady, to me, and back again. He winked. I did not acknowledge it, or at least tried not to. She was too busy speaking with the mother to take notice.

After a conversation about our days, they left with a hug and hearty mention to see each other again tomorrow. She looked upon them as they left, and long after when they closed the door.

I opened the basket, setting out a pie that still steamed of the savor of beef and cheese. She turned quickly, the smell enticing her. She bit her lip when I took out a cobbler red with raspberries.

"They make too much, often, and leave me with quite a lot." I said, "Would you care to join me for supper?"

She beamed a smile, so bright, it was as if the night turned day all of a sudden. I said graces, and we began to eat. It had been quite awhile since I had dinner that was lively. She was kind, her heart very much so. All I had were stories of other's adventures, and yet she kept asking about me. Not that there was much to say, but she wanted to know me.

The day had ended, and knowing the inns were full of adventurers and explorers at this time of the year, I offered her the bed upstairs. She tried to say no, vehemently shaking her head. But I pointed to the couch, the raggedy old cracked leather with stuffing popping out.

"I sleep there nearly everyday. I barely even touch my own bed." I said.

She considered it, piercing green eyes looking back at me, "I'm not sure I would wake if I slept."

"I'm not sure I could sleep either." I lied.

I was dead tired, but not for her.

We spoke through the long hours of the night. We sat in the workshop at the back, and shared stories. She had the most fanciful adventures, half of which I could not keep up with. I told her of sunrises and the people of the town. She asked about me. I did not have much to say, but she leaned on what I did say.

I kept myself awake by tinkering on a particular music box that lay around the shop. All the while we just talked the night away. As the sun rose, light reaching the top of the horizon and into my window, I had finished the box. I placed it down, and it opened to a mechanical feather that seemed to flutter while it turned slowly to the tune of Warm Night Under the Moon Light.

We sat together, watching and listening. She smiled so brightly.

I took her hand, and placed the box. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"A memory." I said, "It may not be the best, and it may not help you live. But it's mine."

She shed a tear through a smile.

Suddenly, my door was shattered by a tall man clad in black. Stood with him in the door way was another dressed in white.

…

"The thief still knows nothing of strength." The oracle said shaking her head.

She opened a fan and waived it in a cool breeze. He fell silent and shrugged. He could barely understand what had happened, what he was doing.

"Let me finish it all up then." The oracle waived her fan and the room shifted into scenes from the past, "They left, and you could not contain yourself. You took whatever meager possession you have, set forth here to Shalem to fight in the King's Favor, and by some stroke of luck, though I would say more of providence, you actually won. Am I right so far?"

He could only nod.

"Used the King's Favor to get to me, and here we are with your question." She smiled, "How will the blacksmith save the princess?"

He fiddled his thumbs, staring at the floors.

"Look at me, young man, or it does not count." Her smile widened.

He looked up, into her hazel eyes that pierced and burned, "I want to save her life."

"Too much for you." She quipped, fanning herself faster, "Try again."

His brow furrowed, fist clenched, and teeth grit, "I want to save her life."

The oracle looked away, closing the fan in a swift motion, "I will give you one last chance, blacksmith. You can change your Favor, return home to Faard with great fortune. No longer to toil, or maybe you would want to work just for the fun of it. Spend your time making toys for children, and still have plenty left over to live quite… very comfortably. Forget about her, get another woman, and live your life."

"What life is there to live if I cannot live it to save another?" He almost shouted.

She stood silent, staring at him in all her regalia, and all her nobility.

"What have you to offer?" No longer any mirth in her.

"My memory." He said.

"Already been offered before." She set the fan on the table, "Not enough, not even for a one way ticket to another world that holds these precious memories. Not for someone like you."

He looked down in thought, time passing.

"My memory from all."

The oracle stared at him for the longest time, the silence deafening.

"You will be forgotten by everyone. As if you never had existed."

"What would it all matter if I could not save a life?" He said slowly, "Let all my deeds be given to providence, all my works be as to the ever present. All my good not on my account, but according to that which is light in the world."

"Then all you will have left is the Almighty." She drew a deep breath, "So be it."

She tossed the fan, "One way ticket. No assurance of going back. A hole in hell as deep. But perhaps the ever present will have mercy."

He held it in his hands, opened it slowly, the embroidery of flames surrounding a three-headed beast, a hound that chained to a tower. Above it, a feather.

"Prepare yourself, blacksmith. It will be cruel."

…

He sat atop a cliffside, eyes on the rising sun, the sound of waves weaved around the winds. Before him was the fan, beside was a long blade. On his side were carefully placed pieces of armor, set one over another, prepared for donning. He took in the morning air, closing his eyes. His mouth moved with a wordless prayer, then stillness.

He leaned back, stretching his legs, and strapped leather guards with metal plates sewn, and asbestos under to fit around his shins. The smell of vinegar was evident on the leather. He kicked and stepped to see the fit, checking the pinch here and there.

Satisfied, he wrapped a padded coat lined with asbestos around his form, then rustled into a chain shirt that reached up to above his knees. After checking the chains and fit, he wore a leather chest piece sewn with metal plates, with asbestos that lined to fit on him. He twisted this way and that.

Content with the fit, he put on leather gloves, tailored with metal plates on his forearms, covered both inside and out with more asbestos. He clenched and relaxed his fists a couple of times, checking the movement around his arms.

And he placed around his shoulders an asbestos cloak, flipped the hood on, and checked the hem.

He jumped, turned, twisted, checking the fit and motion of each part. He breathed a heavy sigh, leaning down to strap the long sword by his side, and fit the fan in his belt.

"Dressed to kill, are we?" The oracle said.

He turned in surprise, never thinking she would be there.

He nodded slowly.

She walked closer to the cliff edge, and gazed upon the horizon.

"Whatever you plan to do young man, make sure the life you fight for is well worth it."

Her voice, a stranger's voice, as if this was the first time they ever met. He clenched on to the fan, steeling himself for the path ahead. He strapped on a leather mask with a hooked nose filled with slow burned charcoal.

He stepped closer to the edge, stood by her side, and watched the sun rise full over the ocean.

"Thank you." He whispered.

She raised a brow, "For what?"

Before anything else could be said, he leapt off of the edge, the fan held in his hand unfolding. He brandished it once with vigor, the edges catching fire. Below him opened a fiery portal, tendrils of flame reaching to him. There revealed, the tower and the sleeping three-headed beast.

Before he could reach the portal, the fan was nothing but ashes in his hand.

He drew the long blade, raised it high, sending the piercing steel into the skull of the middle head. The force of the fall set the blade deep. His eyes wide open, almost surprised that the beast had cushioned his fall.

It groaned and screamed, two heads in a rage breathed out fire. He tried to pull out his blade, only breaking it to half, causing him to fall off unto the cracking floors. Flames raged all around him, the fire near unbearable. He took in heavy breaths, the scent of the smoke still evident even through all of his preparation.

The head on the right, long haired and scarred, roared at his face, and had he not rolled aside, would have bit off the lot of him. He bashed the eye with the hilt of the blade, another scream shaking his very core. The beast raised a paw and shoved him aside, throwing him off his feet, sending him crashing against stone pillars.

He coughed and wheezed, and tasted blood. He gritted his teeth, taking in a deep breath and grasped to stand up.

His eyes widened, seeing the beast charge. He rolled forward, just under its step, sending it crashing, destroying the pillar, not even minding stone in its charge.

It leapt to turn, choked by a chain that kept it near the tower it protected. Its sweeping tail rushed upon him. He blocked with an arm, sending him flying of into a distance, knocking the air out of him. He gasped and wheezed, the smoke all the more evident, the smell of rotting eggs and burning filled his lungs. He fought through the heavy air, rolling to stand, the charging beast nearly stepping on him.

The left head, almost indistinguishable as it was burned nearly all the way through with parts of bone revealed, breathed out flames in every which way. He fell to the ground, covering himself with the cloak. As much as he had prepared it, though the cloak did not burn, it was charred heavily, perhaps to sustain only another blast of flame. He could feel the burns on his arms, but the pain did not have time to set in.

The scarred head let out a monstrous scream, another assault with mouth wide open, seeking to devour him. He leaned down, holding the broken blade with both hands, and just as the teeth of the beast grazed and shredded his hood, he shoved the steel up the beast's throat. Blood rushed and soaked him, blood that choked its head and caused it to spasm.

He ducked under the maw, leaving it in its death throes.

The burned head awaited him, with a wide mouth, throat beginning to glow. With whatever was left in him, he ran as fast as his feet could take him, casting the cloak in front of him, covering whatever he can in his advance. The flames rushed towards him, wrapped around him, concealed him. And yet the force of his motion took him just upon the glowing throat.

He screamed, fists beating on it. With each hit, the flames weakened, and blood rushed, flame blood that caught fire and rushed down the beast. Its neck exploded, causing him to be thrown off in a burning haze, a shooting star across the landscape of hell.

He could feel the burns, his armor nearly just char and embers. But he did not mind the pain. In the midst of the crimson and flames that surrounded him, the pale white light emanated from atop the tower. The feather was there, and with nothing to stand between.

He crawled, inch by inch a labored breath. His right arm gave up, and his left kept on pulling him.

It too gave up.

He did not know the moment where he had stopped moving, nor the moment he breathed his last, but in between, with tears that disappeared in the heat as it fell, he prayed for her.

…

The young lady watched as the feather bristled in song, smiling as it turned with the softest melody. Suddenly, the feather fell apart, the song slowly halting. She gasped in panic, her eyes welled with tears. She looked over it, trying to piece it back together. She held her breath as tears rushed on her cheeks.

She held the box close, embracing the ruined toy. She whispered under her breath, asking why sorrow suddenly wrapped her heart. She touched her cheeks and wondered why she was crying at all. She stared at the box, and the deepest sorrow fell in her. Her eyes could no longer bear to open, silent tears that would never cease.

A tall man clad in black stood behind her, "Looks like it isn't really much of anything."

Another dressed in white kneeled beside her, taking her hand, "Do not worry, princess. It is quite a common toy. We will be able to find you another one."

She pulled her hand, quickly picking up the pieces, pricking her finger on a loose screw.

A young man placed a hand on her shoulder, "Don't worry. It doesn't matter anymore. There are…"

"It does matter!" She shouted.

She watched as crimson trailed down her finger, falling unto the broken pieces of the box, her voice moving through a blur of tears, "He does matter…"