Close the flow. Let it smolder.
Ever so slowly, Tharan tapers the divine Flow with his closing ritual, bringing his forge work for the day to an end. His muscles assert their existence with increasing demands. Earthen musk regains its foothold in his nostrils now that the trance is ended. Tharan sighs through a smile and blinks with heavy eyelids. His hammer, once an extension of his hand, now pulls down as a leaden weight
Tharan places the hammer in its home on the tool rack. He discards the salamander gloves. His muscles and joints burn with the movements as he removes the remainder of his equipment. It feels worse than the fire he uses. Somewhat.
The ForgeMaster piles himself onto a stool and turns to the piece. Loose leafs, parchments, and notepads, all filled with designs, calculations, adjustments, and margins declare the passage of other Masters through Tharan’s workshop. Flowing scripts, hasty scribbles, and corrections converge on a bow.
The piece, unfinished as it is, plays the part well. It would snap if tested now. The aberrant’s viscera and skeleton would have desecrated what little remains of Glohakjan without his brother’s aid. A Master in his own right, Shinrië helped him purify the remains.
Tharan breathes in again, working to regain his composure from the lengthy session. The breaths come in smoother each time. A plate set with fruits and cheese sits next to a goblet at the entryway. Both beckon. He does not know how long it has been since he started but his stomach insists that it has been days. It always thinks more time has passed than truly has.
Tharan puts his brow into his hand, the sweat-infused grime rubbing against his hands. With his arm so close, it is clear the earthen musk is partly him. He closes his eyes as tears well up. The divine presence of his Flow transforms him into a conduit for creation. The absence when he finishes demands a response.
His stressed eyes welcome the darkness. But it does not last. Those emerald green eyes look at him from deep within his consciousness. They sparkle with questions. Of course the bow is for her. The consultations. The work. Perfection is required. And his unfamiliarity with the material cannot be allowed to spoil it.
Tharan marvels at the smile which finds its way to his mouth. He shakes his head, and the expression, clear. But not the image of her eyes. They remain sparkling in a translucence unmatched by his clansmen.
Tharan nibbles on a pear. Smudges of grime lay claim to the fruit where he grips it.
The inner mask shields oneself even from oneself. Isn’t that what the Miësin say?
Does Alkara have an inner mask? The woman doesn’t filter her actions through a sieve as the Doësin do. The masks for his people are layered. Each demands attention. Each blend suitable for different company. Different events. Sometimes even the same Doësin and attending identical affair but deference due to a new tenure.
The raw swirling emotions buffet Tharan. Leaving the Flow and rejoining the consciousness of his position brings epiphany. All of his friends are held at arms’ length. Perhaps farther.
He wears his mask of office; Bell Keeper. His mask as son of Dardha. The masks of his skill at the forge and as a leader in the community. Others with no name but held in place by custom, duty, and honor. Innumerable.
His counterparts each have their own. The masks dance with each other a complex interweaving of parts. To and fro. The intricacies stymied by elaborations woven by other players. Undercurrents unseen from the outset surge through the community after one uneven word.
No one can be trusted if every interaction is multilayered with unrelenting subtlety. The outer moves of the waltz are supported by the outermost mask. But then it’s masks all the way down.
Do our farmers and masons have it easier?
The thought strikes Tharan hard in the chest. Even in the small spaces occupied at the bottom of society, people seek the next rung up. Every small detail is a weapon. Some stowed for later. Others left out to be found.
Left unused, they may rust. The truly devious treasure the tiniest of barbs and sharpen them as needed. Lineages are raised and broken on such details. Minutiae to be kept and threatened and cajoled and propogated. Tharan begins to sigh but stifles it. One mask clinks back into place.
Alkara doesn’t have masks. Not the way the Doësin do. No barriers stand between her eyes and the innermost core of her being. Nothing to dilute the primal expressions she wears. Often louder and more direct than words. The unbridled purity intoxicates.
The panther might have more subtlety…
Tharan rubs his cheek, adding more of the ashen mixture to his skin, this time an amalgam of sweat, ash, and pear juice. The phantom pain of her slap resurfaces, kissing his cheek. The sting of it both alarming and strangely refreshing.
There is no guesswork with her. No prepared reports. Dossiers. Reviews of networks and how some dignitary might receive his words.
The fault lay in his expert hands. Entirely within the Doësin idiom he himself had engaged in subterfuge. He might have told her of the bell sneaked onto her feline companion’s collar. She wouldn’t have consented. It isn’t in her.
Perhaps the slap would have come then. And she would be dead. That fiery retort which left an indelible memory might have been the last he received. Tharan nods and rises from the stool.
Another mask slides into place.
The Doësin Bell Keeper rolls parchments together, binding some with twine or folding others. The process of cleaning up is every bit important as creating the pieces themselves. Tharan clenches his jaw.
Everything must be in order or nothing will be.
Does that include this woman he’s barely met? Alkara invites chaos into a world of stark lines and expectations. Urdima may claim the order of nature but if the Teasin are any indication it is hardly compatible with the Doësin idea.
Is there any place for someone like her among the Doësin?
More importantly, is there any reason he should be entertaining that thought and its implications? Any desire he may have to pursue a relationship with her cannot be reciprocated.
After cleaning, Tharan inspects the progress of the piece. He smiles as he views the blending of metal, wood, and aberrant flesh, allowing himself some satisfaction. Patience in key.
Alkara is, in many ways, a work of art in her own right. The bow will take some time still, and while she is still on the horizon he will allow himself to muse. After that, he must quash any remaining delusion.
It does not do to dwell on that which one cannot have.
A final mask clinks into place.
******
Alkara claps a hand over her mouth to keep from spitting out her ale from laughter. “You did not!” A warm dribble tickles the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t completely successful in clapping the ale in.
“I did!” Eryl grins, gesturing with his mug, “Believe it or not. It helped that there was a gold crown riding on it.” He takes a swig.
Warmth floods Alkara’s cheeks. She stifles the feeling with a quick drink of ale. Her eyes drift down, stretching across his tunic and toward his breeches.
Did he really swim in the Grecian River without even his undercloth?
She quickly refocuses on the bottom of her tankard. She lowers the mug, shaking her head, and hoping the blush goes with it. “No way. There’s just no way. I’m surprised you even know how to swim!”
Eryl throws his head back and laughs, “So were they! My only regret is now the cat’s out of the bag. No more money to be had there. And my friends at work will think twice about putting any money on the line now.” He ends with mock sorrow and rests his hand on Alkara’s wrist. Something like incense wafts upward.
Alkara laughs with him, playfully swatting his hand away. “Such a shame. You’ll just have to earn your money the old fashioned way.”
“And leave the eligible women of Three Rivers wondering?” He cheerfully raises his mug. “I suppose I can stay in a job that’s draining my soul out my ears.”
Alkara purses her lips, pressing them together to keep quiet for a moment. She shakes her head with a scoff, “At least you’re actually as good at your job as people think you are. And you smell like it too.” She swallows and shifts her shoulders, eerily conscious of the skin of her armpit sticking ever so slightly.
“Ahh come on Alkara, so are you! Didn’t you say you’re one of the only guild members nobles can hire without having to worry about sabotage and bribes? That’s unheard of in Three Rivers.” His eyes shrink, diminishing into a softer expression. “And you did kill the brain thief, didn’t you?”
Alkara scowls, “Yeah but I told you. I would have died out there if not for Uncle Iro. Not to mention whatever the hell that bell did to save my life.”
Eryl shakes his head, “I still can’t believe your Uncle is a dark elf. Or half. Whatever. What’s he doing raising humans? You said he found you when you were eight?”
Alkara smiles, “Yep. Starving in Glöhakjan. I didn’t know how to hunt very well yet.”
“He knows more than just how to hunt if he rescued you from the Wastes.” Eryl says ominously. “What’s his deal anyway?”
Alkara laughs, “As he likes to say, that’s his story to tell. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Eryl’s eyes grow wide and he quickly shakes his head. “No thank you. I’m good. But look Alkara, you still killed that thing out there. That’s incredible. And at least you enjoy your work.”
Alkara shrugs, “I did.” As terrified as she is of putting Dre and Chiron in danger, work just isn’t the same without them. It’s awful. She’s not really sure how much longer she can stick with things like this.
Eryl snorts, “You still do, or you wouldn’t be trying to work yourself to death. The only reason I’m still alive is because I put in the bare minimum to not get fired. Get a promotion every now and then because I’m decent at my job. But that’s it. And it’s not like I want more responsibility anyway.”
Alkara frowns, “Have you given any more thought to what you’d actually like to be doing?”
Eryl shrugs, “Nah. What for? I’m thirty, Alkara. My life is basically over.”
Alkara slams her hand on the table and glares at him. “Seriously?”
Eryl starts and stares at her wide-eyed for a beat, then smiles sadly. “Sorry. I keep forgetting this is a touchy subject for you.” He shrugs, “It’s fine. Really. And besides, a pretty lady like you has a lot more important things to worry about.”
Alkara feels her cheeks burning again, and can’t help but notice that Eryl suddenly looks decidedly uncomfortable. She scowls back into her mug, muttering, “Maybe if I were actually pretty.”
“You are!” Eryl insists, still looking awkward. “I mean… look, it kinda sucks with the scars and everything, but even with them you’re pretty.”
Alkara shifts and keeps scowling at her mug. He’s right. Her scars seem to be a focal point with men, for some reason. Every time she turns down a drunkard in the Griffin, it always turns into her being called a bitch or a whore with too many scars anyway. Some even tried to be clever and claim it was a pity offer, seeing as how the scars must mean she doesn’t get many.
Who’d want to settle for me?
Especially with the reputation of the brothel workers. She’d seen a few at times outside the Lobster Kettle. They’re gorgeous and they know how to please a man. Alkara turns heads for the wrong reasons. And there’s probably a good chance she’d hurt a man instead of please them. No one knows one way or the other. But when she turns men down, which has been happening more often lately, suddenly the assumption is she’s awful in bed.
So stupid. She takes another swig of ale. Doesn’t stop it from stinging.
“Hey,” Eryl says, reaching for her hand.
Alkara starts and looks up at him.
Eryl quirks his mouth to the side, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Alkara jerks back, “I’m not–” But then she realizes that there are actually tears pricking her eyes. She gruffly swipes at them, “Let’s talk about something else”
“Uh… okay… um…” Eryl says, looking so upset and like he doesn’t know what to do.
Alkara sighs, “It’s fine. Men are ass-holes sometimes. That’s all.”
Eryl just nods, his turn to just stare into a mug.
“I don’t suppose you know any good arrow smiths?” Alkara says glumly, putting her chin in her hand.
Eryl looks at her in surprise, “Good arrow smiths? I mean. Alkara, I could probably find out which bring in the most coin in Three Rivers. But that doesn’t mean they’re any good.” He takes a swig of ale, “There’s gotta be someone out there though.”
Alkara rolls her eyes, “Yeah, but I can’t find a single one I can actually trust. They all keep trying to get me to sell contracts to Charlotte, or say if I start shit-talking the other smiths they’ll give me a discount. It’s all bull shit. But Fom’s arrows are terrible. They just are. I don’t know why I never noticed before. But I can’t stand them. They are literally the bane of my existence.” She finishes dramatically.
Eryl snorts at her, “Alright well what about the guy that made you the arrows for the brain thief?”
Alkara waves him off, “No way. I can’t go to Afanen for regular arrows. And he almost never makes weapons. Likes to do jewelry and sculptures and stuff. There’s no way he’d take an order like mine.”
Eryl purses his lips, “Have you asked him?”
Alkara frowns, “Well. No. But it was hard enough to get him to make me arrows the first time.”
Eryl shrugs, “I think you should ask him. I bet you’d enjoy the trip too. And the time away from the city. You nature types are weird like that.”
Alkara stares at him, a little surprised at how spot on what he’d said was. But then she shakes her head and smiles. This is one of the reasons she likes Eryl. Just a normal guy, with a brilliant insight every now and then. And he’s one of the few people who bothers trying to help her feel better.
Alkara takes one last swig and then sets her mug down, “Alright, fine. You know what? You’re right. Those were the best damn arrows I’ve ever shot. And Uncle Iro goes to Afanen for arrows, so why shouldn’t I?”
Eryl smiles and claps with a cheer, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Now flag Glin down for more ale. She comes faster when you order.”
******
A few days later, Tharan is back in his forge when he hears a timid knock at the doorway. He slowly releases the flow, careful not to come out of it too quickly. He looks over to see Dorië looking very uncomfortable. Tharan’s eyebrows raise in surprise, Dorië rarely interrupted him while forging. “Yes, Dorië? Is something wrong?”
Dorië’s mouth twists in displeasure, “Wrong, no. But you have a visitor, Master Tharan, and I am afraid that she is quite insistent.”
Tharan doesn’t ask who? If it were me, as a political entity, I’d want to know who I was about to greet so that I could prepare mentally. I mean, even with the assumption based on Dorië’s reaction.
Tharan’s heart beats faster. Only one person elicits a reaction like that from Dorië. Nonetheless, “It is Miss Alkara?” He’s confident he kept his face neutral. After a nod from his attendant, “Alright. I will be there in a few moments.”
Dorië arcs an eyebrow, but simply bows and heads back into the house.
Tharan makes his way to the parlor, doing his best to temper his excitement and anticipation and realizes he had not actually confirmed that it was her. He pauses before rounding the corner and, with centuries’ worth of practice, shunts all of his feelings to the back of his mind and away from his heart. He would deal with them later. For now, he could not afford to lose his words again.
When he enters the parlor he both is and is not surprised to be met with those green eyes. Still captivating, even dulled as they were with pain and surrounded by dark circles. He quickly bows before he loses himself in them, “Miss Alkara. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” He kneels as Guenwyvar comes up to him and scratches her behind the ears.
Alkara, who’s a little surprised that he doesn’t seem angry with her, gives him a flat look at the address and arcs an eyebrow at Guenwyvar. She shrugs, “It’s… just Alkara. But to put it simply, I’d like some arrows.”
Tharan looks up and blinks in surprise, “You came all the way to Afanen… for arrows?” That’s a three day journey.
Alkara scowls as she smoothly reaches back to her quiver, draws an arrow, and holds it out for his inspection. “Look at this. I can’t shoot this!”
Tharan moves forward and takes the proffered arrow. The lighting in the parlor is not the best for a thorough inspection, but even so he can see the issues. With a small chuckle he looks back up at Alkara, “I am certain that you can, and have, or you would not be so upset. The work seems inconsistent though, the fletching is much better than the arrowhead.”
“That’s because I replaced the fletching.” She says through clenched teeth, her frustration evident.
His eyebrows rise in surprise, “Really? Impressive.”
She scoffs, “Please. It’s nothing compared to your work, which is why I’m here. I’ve got jobs coming in left and right and I need arrows that will actually fly straight and do the damage I need them to do.”
“I see.” He pauses, considering the schedule he has ahead of him. “You will recall that I rarely accept weapon commissions at all, let alone requests for something as small as a batch of standard arrows. If my clients, or the general public, learn I craft arrows for you, it could lead to consequences that neither of us desire.”
Alkara shrugs, “So I won’t tell anyone. You want me to bring a backpack when I come pick them up?” She pauses, but when all he does is blink in surprise at her she continues, “Look, you were the one who mentioned repeat orders. I don’t need mythril but I need good arrows and I’ll pay you for them, simple as that. You can even have these to melt down the arrow heads if you want.” She gestures to the quiver on her back.
Tharan meets her gaze for a little longer, then nods. “Alright. But I am afraid that I will not be able to have your order finished until the day after tomorrow.”
Dorië, standing off to the side interjects with surprise, “Master Tharan, might I remind you that your commissions roster is full, and you have a full schedule of council meetings coming up.”
Tharan turns to Dorië, “Yes. Thank you Dorië. But a batch of standard arrows will not be difficult to manage.” He turns back to Alkara, “Come back the day after tomorrow. They will be ready for you then. Leave the old arrows on the table, if you please. Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my work.”
Alkara nods, slings her quiver around and lays the arrows on the table, then turns to follow Dorië out, “Thanks. Come on Guenwyvar.”
He watches her leave and shakes his head. He really should not have agreed to this. This could go so poorly in so many different ways. But if it means seeing her one more time… he walks toward the arrows, picks them up, and heads toward his forge, shaking his head. Repeat orders. It had been a joke. A delightfully rewarding joke, both then and, it would seem, now. And is her Glöhasis improving already? Or is his growing infatuation with her diminishing the unpleasant Grecian accent with which she speaks?
When he arrives in his forge he sets the arrows down on the back table, picking one up to inspect the fletching more thoroughly. She had assumed he was being polite. But for someone so young who did not commit themselves to fletching as their craft, this work is actually quite admirable.
He sighs and puts the arrow down. What is he doing? This behavior is so very short-sighted. Dorië must think he has gone insane. All the same, he had committed to it now, and he does have a lot of work to do.
He may as well get started.
******
Alkara knocks at the door and waits for mister stuffy elf to answer. At least Tharan himself is pleasant enough to deal with, though she’s still furious with him for hiding that bell on Guenwyvar. Even if it had saved her life. She’s less furious with him about the saving her life part now.
Huh. No guards.
Mister stuffy elf finally opens the door, “Good morning Miss Alkara. Please come inside.” He continues as they make their way to the parlor, “Master Tharan regrets that he is unable to present you with your order in person; he has an important meeting. He hopes you understand and that the order is to your satisfaction.” He says as he gestures to a satchel sitting on the back table. “Should anything be wrong, please don’t hesitate to return. While Master Tharan’s craftsmanship is of the highest caliber, he is happy to replace anything that might be defective.”
She’s pretty sure she hears the intense unhappiness in the elf’s voice at that last bit, but she doesn’t see any of it on his face. It’s kind of impressive. She nods and grabs the pouch of gold for the arrows, “Alright, here are the crowns.” She tosses it to him, takes the satchel, and he leads her back out. She pauses for a moment in the door way and then smiles brightly as she walks through it, turning back to him, “Thanks Dorië. See you next time.”
That does get a reaction out of him. His eyes widen ever so slightly, he turns a shade paler, and his mouth opens a bit. She thoroughly enjoys watching him quickly try to recover himself. He bows, and closes the door. A satisfied smile replaces the overly bright one. “Okay, let’s go Guenwyvar.”
When she makes camp for the night on the way back to Three Rivers she pulls over the satchel and opens it. To her surprise, there’s a note inside with a strong, flowy, even elvish script.
I took the liberty of repurposing the shafts from the arrows you left. It seemed a shame to waste the fletching. Of the twenty arrows, ten are broadheads, five are blinding, and five are smokescreen. Details on the reverse.
Alkara blinks in surprise and pulls one of the old arrows out, inspecting the new head in the firelight. She’d seen broadheads before, but not like this. This looks mean. She does not envy whatever gets stuck with this thing. She pulls out an arrow with what looks like a small clay head, but then she looks at the rest and can’t tell which one was supposed to be blinding and which one was supposed to be smokescreen. Details on reverse.
She flips over the parchment. Ah. He’d adjusted her fletchings just a little so that she could distinguish between the two, even while they were still in the quiver. He’d even left the details of how to make the heads, presumably for Dreonna, because it doesn’t make any sense to her. She shrugs. She isn’t gonna turn down extra arrows. Especially ones of this quality. She can’t wait to try them out.
She smiles. Looks like Eryl had been right. She supposes she’ll just have to buy him a drink when she gets back. She wonders if he meant what he said about her being pretty. He doesn’t look too bad himself, even if he is a little plain. And he’s easy to talk to. Maybe there’s something there.
Alkara snorts as she wraps herself up in her bedroll and sighs as Guen snuggles up next to her.
One thing at a time.