User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Smith's Second Story

Smith’s day started as all his day’s started. The sun rose, he dressed, and it was out to feed the pigs and goats. Come harvest, they’d sell the pigs at the market, and the goat’s milk could be used to make food.

The animals fed, Smith picked up the man-sized pitcher from behind the shed and walked a mile to the river, where he filled it up with the day’s water. Full, it would’ve taken six men to lift it. Smith carried it over his shoulder and didn’t feel the weight. The townsfolk were always curious how the Smiths managed to have so much clean water, and how they could be so liberal with it. It was better they not know.

He set the pitcher inside the shed and headed into the smithy. They kept the smelter running all hours, in order for it to keep its heat, and every morning Smith had to shovel more coal into it. This, too, went extraordinarily quick for him, since he could lift a much heavier shovel full then most, and did not tire doing so either.

The smelter dealt with his lit the forge, igniting the coals that lay in its bed. It would take them some time to heat up, and so he set to honing his most recent creation: Ungyxa. He sat at the anvil and placed the edge of Ungyxa against the horn, and begin to hone the ax in a rhythmic back and forth motion.

He liked tending to the ax because, like Ysgramor or Hakon One-Eye, all great Nordic heroes carried an axe and that was how Smith fancied himself.

Because he was a hero, wasn’t he? A humble beginning, a magnificent destiny. He could lift boulders over his head, one in each hand (he knew for a fact, he’d tried it) without the slightest effort. He’d bent metal with his hands, jumped fifty feet from one side of Cold Rock pass to the other, survived the fall into Cold Rock Pass when he missed the jump one time. Everything about him was just strong. His arms, his legs. Even his lungs--he could hold his breath for an impressively long amount of time. And as he’d grown, the fat on his body had receded day by day. The muscles on his arms and chest were taut and powerful, the biggest of all the men in the village, folk had noted, and what little fat remained had accumulated as a slight paunch around his midsection. Smith bet that in a few more years that’d be gone too, and his stomach would be as flat and toned as the rest of him.

Heroes were strong like he was and they did things, leaving Rorikstead first among them. What he wouldn’t give to finally be out of this village and-

“Ah!” He jerked his hand back from the anvil. Distracted, he’d nicked his thumb on the ax. Smith watched the blood well up from the wound in his hand. It was a striking, lustrous, like quicksilver, but dark and gold where mercury was white and silvery.

He watched blood flow with a confused, worried expression. “What am I?”

The door of the smithy rattled, and Smith quickly hid his hand, wrapping it in a nearby handkerchief, but it was only his father.

“Everything alright, boy?” Old Smith asked, carrying two large wooden baskets, heavy with his tools. Smith moved to take them from him, but his father shook his head.

“I can manage these myself. I’m not so old that I need you treating me as if I’ll break.”

“Mister Manette says that you shouldn’t be working with that shoulder.” Smith said, accusingly, returning to his seat by the anvil. He leaned back against it.

“Jouane Manette might be the healer, but I know what I can handle.” Smith’s father said, setting the tools down with a bang on the workbench. His father still big, but now that Smith was mostly grown he could see things he hadn’t noticed when he was younger. Mainly, his father’s age. What had been solid before was becoming soft. Lines were becoming more and more prevalent in his face, the skin looser around his neck. He tired easier, had difficulty doing tasks that had been easy for him not five years ago.

Everyone’s body betrayed them in the end, Smith thought, and it was more of a betrayal that, just as he was reaching his peak, his father was becoming weaker. Like he was somehow stealing his father’s strength. Like it didn’t belong to him.

“I’m sorry.” Smith said, although not entirely sure why he did. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s alright, boy, you’re just trying to help.” Old Smith smiled ruefully, unpacking his tools and laying them out. “You’re a sight better to me than I was to my father. Believe it. And that’s age, I think. Got to rely on your young to take care of you. The father becomes the son.”

Smith had a treacherous spike of fear, imagining a world where he never left Rorikstead, where he spent his entire life in the village, tending to his ailing father, as the man got sicker and sicker, weaker and weaker. It was a world where Smith spent his whole life trapped here, in this forge. He hated it.

“Do you still need that iron?” Smith asked, standing up, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic. “I can fetch it from the mine.”

“Would you?” Old Smith asked. “As it stands, we’ll run out before the day is through, better to you do so now so we don’t have to break.”

Smith nodded, grabbing his cloak and heading for the door.. “Its paid for?”

“Aye, just tell the foreman you’re there to pick it up. Oh, and boy,”

Smith paused halfway through the door and looked back.

“Bring the wheelbarrow. You gave Miss Reldith a heart attack, carrying it over your shoulder like that. She swore you must’ve broke your back.”

“Yes, father.”

“Good lad. Be quick now, we have orders to fill.”

Smith shut the door behind him, breathing in the cool Hearthfire air. He tried not to be too excited about his freedom. It was only temporary.

He didn’t head straight to the mine west of town, instead heading towards the center of the village. Rorikstead was not impressively large, but it had grown a few homes in the years since Smith’s childhood. The dirt of the street was raked more often than not now, and the smell of animal waste wasn’t as prevalent. Although, to be honest, there was not such a big difference between his childhood and adolescence. Life was frustratingly resistant to change, and when it did it was usually for the worse.

“Is that Smith Black’s son?” An Altmer woman sat on her porch, looking out into the street.

“Morning, Miss Reldith.” Smith called back as he passed her house.

“What’re you doing out boy? You should be helping your father!”

Smith succeeded in not rolling his eyes. “I’m getting iron for the forge.”

“Then don’t waste your time on me boy, go on! Oh, and bring a wheelbarrow. You’ll break your back trying to carry coal without it!”

“I’ll bring one, Miss Reldith.” Smith promised, striking a quicker pace to get out of her range.

He came to a home at one end of town, modest, even for one of the homes in the village. He walked up and knocked on the door twice. He winced when the wooden door rattled much harder than he’d intended.

“Divines, don’t knock the door down, I’m coming!” A girl’s voice called out. The door swung open and the girl instead blinked in surprise.

“Smith?” She craned her neck back to look up at him. Not only was Smith frighteningly tall, Gunilla was ridiculously short. He had over a foot on her. “Aren’t you working today?”

“Gunilla.” The apprentice grinned down at her. “I’ve come for two things.”

She raised a brow at him. “Oh?”

“You and the wheelbarrow.”

“I have housework to do, Smith.” She said, casting a preoccupied glance over her shoulder.

“It’ll only be for a minute.”

“My folks are still in Whiterun, they won’t like me leaving the house unattended.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

Gunilla narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s your game?”

“I’ll ask you this. In ten years, what will you regret more--not spending a few extra hours sowing, or going on an adventure with Smith Young, soon to be renowned traveler?”

“Renowned traveler? Someone’s ambitious. Let me get my good shoes.”

They climbed the hill to the north of Rorikstead, so that they could overlook the village. Gunilla carefully balanced on the top of a long boulder, holding onto Smith for balance, in case she should fall.

“What’s this about being a traveler?” She asked, watching her carefully placed feet.

He pursed his lips. “I was thinking about leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’m cut out for being a blacksmith, Gunilla.”

She laughed in his face and he glared at her. “I’ll drop you.” He threatened.

“Smith.” She began, indulgently. “You’re one of the best craftsmen in town. You’re a better hand at carpentry than Lemkil, better by far with a needle than I am, and your own father has said you’ll surpass him. You’re being dramatic.”

“It’s not that.” Smith said. “I just feel so... trapped all the time. I don’t want to be stuck here my whole life.”

She laughed again and he glowered at her now. “I will drop you, I’m serious.”

“Smith. You’re seventeen. We have everything ahead of us. You’re a craftsman’s apprentice. That’s an opportunity some people in Rorikstead would kill for. The ones who fought in the Legion did kill for it. When you’ve finished your apprenticeship, what’s to stop you from leaving?”

My father, Smith though sourly, but he didn’t believe that. His father would want what he wanted. He was always on Smith’s side. No, what he was afraid about was that… that he wanted this life. But because of what he was, it could be taken from him. If people knew the things he could do… any chance of being Smith Young, the ordinary blacksmith, was gone.

“I don’t know.” He admitted.

“Give Rorikstead a chance. I’ve been around, and it’s not a bad place.” She smiled. “Besides, it has me. Can’t say that about anywhere else.”

He smiled up at her. Even with the boulder adding to her height, she was only a bit taller than he was. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

Gunilla smiled at him only briefly before her face fell, and Smith reflected her expression of concern. “What is it?”

She pointed past him, over his shoulder. Coming from the east, where Rorikstead’s meager forest was, where Bjorn, Erik, and Ennis, each carrying a bow. They were returning from what looked to be a successful hunt, although the actual success was debatable, given their ahul was a single rabbit.

“The three inseperable cocksuckers.” Gunilla murmured. “Each getting off on the other.”

Smith looked at her, shocked by her language, but was unable to stop a snicker from bubbling up.

She smirked back and shrugged.

“What’s so funny?” Bjorn shouted over, striding up with Ennis and Erik at his sides, as they always were. Age and time had done similarly to Bjorn what it’d done to Smith, although not at all to the same degree. He’d grown tall and fit, losing his skinny face and frame, trading them in for an angular jaw and lean musculature.

“Nothing, Bjorn.” Smith said, looking down at Bjorn, who was a few inches shorter. It had been many years since Smith remembered feeling threatened by Bjorn, but he’d cultured an acute and permanent dislike for the boy who’d been his childhood bully. He doubted he’d ever be able to let it go. “Take it somewhere else.”

Bjorn didn’t like that. “I said, what’s so funny?”

“And I told you to take it somewhere else.” Smith furrowed his brow. “We’re not bothering you.”

Bjorn affixed Smith with a vacant gaze, then spoke over his shoulder to Ennis. “I don’t think that rabbit is enough for us.”

Erik and Ennis nodded in the dumb, blind agreement of life-long toadies. “I don’t think so too, Bjorn.” Ennis agreed. “I think we need something bigger.”

“How about bitch?” Bjorn said, raising his bow up towards Gunilla, who flinched. “Not much meat on those bones, but it’s something.”

“That’s enough, Bjorn.” Smith said. He felt a distant, far off anger rising in him, long, long suppressed. “Leave her alone.”

“What about pig, then?” Bjorn smiled, passing the bow over Smith. The demigod didn’t blink. “This is a plump one, nice and thick through the belly, eh, Ennis?”

“The fat’d fall right off the bone!” Ennis agreed, grinning with delight at this game

“Well, what about both?” Bjorn said. “Hey, what if we took ‘em back and bred ‘em? What kind of sick, fucking horror would a bitch and a pig make?”

Smith took a sudden step forwards and Bjorn lunged meet to him, lifting his chin to sneer at Smith better. Smith imagined ripping open Bjorn’s chest and pulling out his heart. He imagined putting Bjorn on the anvil and pummeling him with his father’s hammer until he was less than pulp.

“Don’t.” Gunilla laid a hand on Smith’s arm, and he felt his anger receding. “It’s not worth it, Smith.”

He took a deep breath, nodding, and stepped back from Bjorn.

“You know, I’m really sick of you thinking you’re better than me, Young.” Bjorn said. “Just because you got big doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass. You’ll always be Fat Smith.”

Smith ignored him, turning towards Gunilla to help her down. She stepped into his hands and he pulled her from the boulder, placing her on the ground.

“Too fat to be your father’s son.” Bjorn added, trying to find a place to drive the knife in. “I mean, c’mon, you don’t even look like him--I bet you’re not even the same race.” Smith paused and, emboldened, Bjorn continued.

“But I guess that makes sense.” Bjorn said, smirking back at his compatriots. “My dad says that your mother was a fat fucking whore who screwed every man in Skyrim. That she fucked--”

Smith spun and struck Bjorn in the face. There was a loud crack as the mandibles of his jaw separated, and half the boy’s face exploded and wrapped around Smith’s fist.

Distantly, Smith heard someone scream.

Bjorn’s limp body wanted to fall over, but Smith’s hand shot out and gripped the front of his shirt, effortlessly lifting Bjorn into the air.

“You sniveling little shit.” Smith growled, cocking a fist back to punch it through Bjorn’s skull. “This is a long time coming.”

“Smith! Smith!” Gunilla shrieked, leaping forwards and wrapped her arms around his. “Don’t! Don’t! Divines! Don’t!”

Smith looked back at her, expecting to see concern or shock. All he saw in her face was fear. He looked at his raised fist--the knuckles were smeared with gore. And he turned to look back up at Bjorn. The young man was groaning softly, head lolling.

Smith anger receded and was immediately replaced with horror at what he’d done.

“I--” Bjorn still hung from his grip, bleeding heavily. Smith dropped him and staggered backwards. “I… I’m sorry!”

The three of them stared at him in abject terror.

“I’m sorry!” He shouted again. He couldn’t turn and run away fast enough.

The moon was high by the time his father found him. The same ruin Smith had gone to all those years ago, the night the sabre cat had attacked him.

The light from a lantern dropped across Smith, and he held his knees tighter to his chest.

He squinted at the lantern and his father’s gruff voice came from behind it. “Boy…”

“I didn’t mean to.” Smith whimpered. “I didn’t.”

“I know!” Old Smith dropped the lantern and fell to his knees, pulling Smith into a tight hug, wiped the tears from his face. “I know, son. It wasn’t your fault.”

Smith couldn’t look at him. “I’m a monster.”

“No you’re not, boy.” Old Smith’s voice was firm. “You’re a gift. Do you understand me? Everyday, I thank the Divines I have you. This world would be a much darker place without you in it.”

Sobs racked Smith’s chest unbidden. “I killed Bjorn.”

“Killed? No, son. Hurt, yes. But Manette says he’ll make a full recovery. He’ll just have a little beauty mark to contend with. A reminder that he shouldn’t mess with people bigger than him.”

“I wasn’t even trying to hurt him bad.” He choked out around sobs. “He said these things about mother… that I wasn’t your son… that she… she...”

Old Smith looked at him. “Smith. Boy. I want you to look at me.” Smith did. “From the day you came into this world, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind you were my child. Your mother and I… we tried very long to have children. And when we’d just given up hope… we had you. You have use both in you. Your eyes, your hair--they’re your mother's.”

“And you?” Smith sniffled, wiping his nose. “What do I get from you?”

“My temper,” Old Smith said, then added, smirking, “and my right hook.” Smith laughed despite him.

“Now, there might be trouble in Rorikstead over what happened. It might not be safe to stay. How do you feel about Solitude?”