Brickwrath was unusual in that he’d chosen his own name, long after he’d become an adult.
Most people had their long-name chosen for them by their parents at birth, and then the child adjusted it as they grew, but by 14 or 15 you were expected to be settled.
Brickwrath was almost 34 when he handed in the form for a full name change.
What had his name been before? What a rude question. You’re obviously not from around here. He was Brickwrath now, and that’s all you need to know.
Now, some might suspect that he was running from something, changing his name at such a late age, but in reality, he just wasn’t comfortable with the old one. Simple as that.
Humming to himself, he shaped the clay in his hands, smoothing out the features with his thumbs.
He’d joined the army at 15, not unusual, the city always needed soldiers, either to supplement the police or to impress their will on those they deemed lesser, and it was a 10-year tour of duty with a good reference at the end of it.
It hadn’t been quite what he’d expected. He’s expected them to shove a rifle into his hands and teach him to destroy, instead, they had taught him to create.
Turns out, you can’t wage a war with guns alone. Sure, he didn’t have much talent for magic, but he could split stone and form bricks with the best of them. They’d quickly dug out of him a talent for maths and planning, and he’d spent the next 8 years of his life fighting against the encroaching jungle, armed with only a pencil, a ruler, and a plumb-line.
Barracks, bridges, and, when there was nothing for them to fight; concert halls, civilian housing and all those civic buildings that a city requires to function but nobody wants to look at. Architecture became his life and his love, the brutal functionality required in war zones shifting into ornate, intricately designed public works.
With a hum, he shaped out the wings and ears, a creature slowly forming in his hands. It was an imitation of something they’d found once, early on, hidden in a ruined castle, deep, deep in the woods.
The place could have been there either a hundred years or a thousand, when they found it. Even sheltered by the greenery around it, rain had worn rivulets deep into the stones and the roof had long since caved in, taking the floors along with it and leaving behind only a shell. As they’d picked through the rubble, he’d found the Gargoyle, somehow still intact.
It was a friendly looking thing, with big ears and an expressive, happy face. It was sitting in a squat position, its arms resting on its knees. They posited that it was made of local stone, and that it had lived on the roof, until one day there was no more roof to live on. A sacrificial guardian, watching over the inhabitants of the place.
One of the kids in the regiment had been a real artist, and at Brickwrath's request, had sketched the gargoyle from all angles. He had stored those drawings reverently throughout the rest of his time in the army, keeping them alongside the most important of his architectural plans.
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Before they’d moved camp, three of them had taken the time to haul it back up onto the top of the ruined wall, securing it in place to stand guard once again. It would be destroyed by the rain, but that was ok. Nothing lasts forever.
He glanced over at those drawings now, stored away in a box of his own making, safe from the dust and muck of his workshop.
Names. Most names were chosen for you, had he said that? ‘Water brings greenery to the barren earth’, ‘The Scent of the Flower Meadow, the Humming of Bees’, that sort of thing. Perfectly normal names for a parent to pick upon the birth of their darling babe. A long-name was a soft thing, for a child to grow into, to mould to themselves as they reached adulthood.
Waterbringer had been a good friend, and the only reason they weren’t still in contact was the 500 miles or so between them. Beeflower had shared a tent with him for almost six months, before they both moved on to other projects.
Brickwrath looked down for a moment, mind empty of any real thought, shaping the small arms. Beeflower had been a good person, he wondered where they’d ended up.
Shaking his head, he frowned in concentration. The arms were done, onto the tail now, a ridge of clay curving around its little butt. He couldn’t remember the name of the artist who had done the sketches for him, but the boy had been a real talent. Maybe these drawings would be worth something someday, when they were rich and famous, but he’d never sell them, and he had no children to pass them onto… It was just him now. Him, and this little gargoyle.
He set it down, drawing the faintest touch of magic out of the air and letting it run through the clay, watching as some of the lines and thumbprints smoothed out. The creature before him seemed to shift more easily into its pose, the smile on its little face widening just a hair.
Brickwrath smiled to himself, mirroring the small face, before carefully placing it off to one side, ready to be glazed and fired at a later date. Humming to himself as he washed the clay off his hands, he considered a name for the small creature. ‘Protects the House, Shares Joy with Those who See’, maybe, Joyseer.
Yes, that would do. Smiling and nodding, he dried his hands and fixed the name in his heart. It was silly, to name an object, but he never voiced them out loud, and it harmed nobody.
-
His home was a simple affair, out in the woods, away from the noise of the city. He’d built it himself, out of local wood and stone. He’d mixed the clay plaster for the walls out of clay from the nearby pond, a deep rich red, polished and waxed to a shine. The wax was from his own hives, and the whole affair was protected from the worst of the weather by the lee of the roof.
The roof was sloped all the way to the ground, planted with a thick layer of grass, moss and wildflowers. Near the peak he could see Daisygreens, his goat, dutifully making sure nothing got too out of control. It was a bit weird to give a goat a human name, but as with the gargoyles, he’d long ago stopped caring about that, and she did a good job at keeping everything neat and tidy.
He shut the door to the workshop behind him and eyed the sky, frowning at the clouds gathering in the distance. Looked like a big storm was coming in. Grumbling, he checked and barred the shutters, secured the lid across the well, checked the chimney of his kiln and arranged the million other things that one often only remembers after they’ve been ruined by rain.
The rain started to fall as he was herding protesting Daisygreens into the house. She wouldn’t be harmed, to be out in it, but he was fond of her and he’d rather not take the risk.
Once inside he barred the door and knelt down, coaxing the stove into life, filling the room with low light and warmth. A quick sniff of the box of dried tea, to make sure it was still tea, the kettle filled and on the stove, and all was set for a storm.
With a groan, Brickwrath settled back into the mohair armchair, kicked his feet up onto his custom-built, perfectly positioned footstool, and napped like a king.