Elia

Daft boy, she repeated to herself. Ever since that idiot had been around Elia had nothing but strife.

Just yesterday, her mother brought her to the tent where the boy was being kept. She thought it was for her to feel sorry for him. To see how miserable he was.

Her mother berated her. She always berated her. But that time was worse than ever.

Sitting in her bed now, she looked out her window. That was it she thought. That day in the tent she realized what she had to do.

She stared out the window, caressing her bruised skin. Her face was puffed from the punches her mother gave her. Her arms had deep grab marks from her mother dragging her and holding her from running from the beatings.

If Elia had empathy, she would compare her pain to Theus. But that was the lesson her mother wanted to teach her, so she would never learn anything from it.

Elia: “Tonight,” she murmured under her breath. She took the pack by her bedside and recounted its contents. A list she knew by heart at this point. Nevertheless, she needed to be sure everything was there.

Elia: “Hammer, mallet, tongs, knife, files, chisel, punches, smock”. All the tools she had collected one at a time from the closet in the workroom. It was easy to do when her mom went out to check on Theus.

She would creep down from her loft into the living space where she and her mother lived. Their house had only the living space, the tool closet, and the workroom.

She, one day at a time, snuck from her loft to steal another piece of equipment. Her mother had taken down the ladder. She was meant to stay up in the loft which was 8ft above the floor as a part of her punishment.

It was easy to get down. Despite the bruises, her arms could still support her weight. Hanging from the loft she was only a few feet from the ground.

After she took a tool from the back of a shelf. She would climb up the loft with the aid of one of the dining chairs. Then with a gardening tool she hid under her bed mat, she would push the chair back under the table.

Days of plotting had brought her to this night. The moon had been approaching its darkest phase for days now.

Tonight, was black. Only a few torches lit Willowood. Isabrell had left for her nighttime “visit” to Josiah. She knew she only left to care for Theus to see him. What a bitch.

Elia strapped her pack on. She wore everything she couldn’t carry in the leather pack. She could keep more inside due to a lack of provisions. Part of her punishment had been starvation. Her mother never let her eat when she punished her.

For years now she had gotten used to starving. Her mother didn’t want her to be too fat that no boy would marry her. It was a feeling she associated with conviction.

All the years of being beaten for trying to learn to forge; for wanting to be like her mother. All Elia got in response was ‘proppah girls don’t play with metal. You need to be a proppah lady to marry one day.’

It was all over this night. She would leave for Havenrun. There she would take a boat to Sol and learn from a proppah smith.

With her pack drawn tight to her back. She crept for the edge of the loft.

A creak suddenly cried from the door across the room. Like a cat caught in torchlight, Isabrell saw her daughter, leg stretched attempting to descend the loft.

She entered the room so fast. Elia panicked, eyes wide she tried to scramble back up to her bed.

Isabrell: “Sneaking bitch!” she yelled running to the ledge. Isabrell stood over six feet tall. So, the dangling leg of Elia was easy for her to yank down.

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Her daughter hit the cobble floor. Her pack’s rattling muffled the crunching sound of her bones.

Isabrell stood towering above Elia with a mountain’s worth of pressure.

Isabrell: “You disgust me girl. You do what I say”. Then with both hands, Isabrell lifted her daughter and threw her back into the loft. “You can’t be sneaking about girl. You must obey me”.

Her mother’s ease when handling her brought her fear for her entire life. She proved time and time again what disobedience rewarded.

Elia: “Yur a demon!” she screamed as she scrambled on all fours. Even with pumping adrenaline, she could tell she had broken a few ribs. The pain extended to her voice. “I hate you demon! You love that boy more than you ever did me”.

A creeping silence held in the air. Elia waited. Her panting breath was the only noise in the still room.

The ladder slammed on the loft’s railing. Creaking wood lifted Isabrell revealing her head and shoulders to Elia.

Isabrell: “Girl you are to marry. No woman should ever have to do what I do. That boy could be our key to leaving this damned place. For you to av a bettah life”.

Her mother stared at her. She looked her in the eye. They reflected an orange light from outside the window. They had warmth. They had a caring softness.

This cycle had been normal for Elia. The beatings. The apologizing. The wrath. The calm. It was what tempered Elia.

For years, she had been broken. But she always got back up. Her mother had always found a new bone to break, or insult to ingrain. But she always knew how to make it better. She always had enough mother inside to remind Elia she was still Loved.

That bitch had forged her daughter’s body through brutal means. Tempered her mind to withstand fear and ridicule. Like the molding of steel her daughter had been broken and rebuilt stronger. She had become more attuned to smithing than any person.

A great power flowed through Elia’s soul. She knew her truth.

Elia: “I’ll forge my own path,” she said getting on her knees. Her mother only an arm’s reach away looked up at her, eyes glazed with realization.

Then as swift as a hammer on hot steel, Elia struck her mother with a smithing hammer from her getaway pack. The motion was swift and effortless. She had been building up that swing for her entire life.

Like the felled willow tree of days past, Isabrell’s body met the ground.

She left. She had no more ties to Willowood. Her giant had been felled.

In a blink, she found herself in the workroom. It was black. From memory, she found the anvil in the center of the room. There, as always, draped her mother’s apron. Resting next to the anvil was her sledgehammer.

She packed the apron and held the hammer up to her face. It was heavy. She ran her fingers around the curves and grooves. It was finally hers.

As she ogled the hammer. Something began to change in the room. She was unaware. But a shift in her fate had begun in this dark room.

Her adrenaline had been pounding her system since she was thrown from the loft minutes ago. Her chest heaved up and down with each breath.

A dull light began to illuminate the room, then grow dark. She looked around. Again, the light brightened and darkened.

Elia: “Hello?”, she asked the room.

After a second she realized the light was following the flow of her breath. Deeper longer breaths confirmed as the room’s orange light intensified and stretched.

Her breath seemed to encompass the room. Otherworldly energy aided her soul to carry the light across the room to her rhythm.

She paced over to the source. The forge. Bending over she peered inside. It took a second as she winced from her newly broken ribs.

A lump of charcoal sat alone in the forge. It hummed a light glow. She stared as her breath increased the brightness of the flame.

Elia: “A miracle,” she said aloud. Her hands gripped the sledge tighter.

She looked into the coal. Reflected there was her connection with the forge. It began to look back at her.

The lump was cracked with angular veins. It was no bigger than her hand. The veins glowed with light. Its eyes were wisps of smoke. It had a similarly wispy mouth that wrapped into a smile the width of its body. Arms began to flank its body floating just above the coal. The arms were small nails that held a white glow Above it floated a ball of flame.

Elia: “A miracle,” she repeated stupefied.

The charcoal being began to move about in the stone forge. It looked about the small recess in the wall it was residing in. Smaller piles of ash had remnants of coal. It went to each pile and began to heat them up.

Elia: “Charcoal?” she asked. “You must be hungry”. She then left the room for but a moment.

As she returned, she held a woven basket of charcoal in her arms. She promptly dumped it into the forge. It piled up in a mound.

Elia: “I see you,” she giggled. The little coal poked its head from the top of the pile. Its smile reflected her own.

A giggle. A smile. Never once had Elia thought she would experience these phenomena.

The coal looked up at her. It knew what she was thinking. It knew she never smiled. It knew she was happy. She knew it knew.

The two stared at each other. It floated up out of the oven. Meeting her face. She could feel its warmth. She had never felt a loving warmth before in her life. It smiled at her.

Then with a sudden press of its body. It kissed her forehead.

She felt recognition never experience before in her life.

She had been touched by the god of her forge.