safe beneath his bed. He lay back down, breath settling. He found himself inspecting the darkness in the room. Damn it, he was now entirely awake. Sleep would not be coming soon. The midnight shadows were heavy indeed, but something caught his attention. All was not dark. He went to investigate.
As he tiptoed from the room, the reality of his new life struck him. He shivered. But more than that, his skin crawled with understanding. He did now have something to lose. That was entirely new.
His father was in the forge room, on his own. He was just sat there under the dancing light of a single candle. The orange glow invaded the corners of the room, and strange shadows stalked the walls of the smithy. As he snuck in, nerves took him, but wherever he looked, there was only familiarity. There was nothing to be afraid of. He caressed the situation.
“Pa.”
His father jolted, and it was only when Jossie stepped into the light that the older man visibly relaxed. He had been disturbed from thought. And then the focus of his father’s attention became clear. He understood. The blade lay before him, reflecting the candle-light with awesome majesty. The dance of the metal was almost overwhelming. The patterns were astonishing.
He found himself drawn to the steel, like a moth to a candle. If he loved her before, then now he was obsessed. He lusted after that thing.
“Beautiful isn’t she.” He could only nod in response. “I was wondering whether I could take her for myself.”
“You can’t! Can you?” His words were edged with poorly concealed hope. But no. His father wanted the blade. There was a natural order to things, and he was still bottom of the pile.
“No son, I can’t. I could try to repay the cost, but the only thing I have that is valuable enough is this bloody weapon. It will be heartache to give her away.”
The King was coming tomorrow, and such was his obsession that his stomach dropped. He wanted to hand that weapon over as little as his father did. Maybe less. His hands balled and his father raised his eyebrows. They were sat side by side, father and son. An impossibly gentle hand was placed over his tensed fist.
“What’s wrong, Joss. Why are you up?”
There was no other option but to speak. The nightmare was still vivid, and the thought of handing off this beautiful thing added weight to his mood. He felt small and frightened, scared of a life where he had substance. He was frightened of a life where he had a father, and also of a life where he wasn’t bottom. It was the life he was never destined to have, but now he had it. He looked at the blade before him, and smiled. But there was sourness in his smile. This lump of Mandari steel had turned his life around. And now it was leaving him.
You couldn’t beat a mandahoi, but maybe he didn’t need to. He had another purpose now, didn’t he?
“Come on, son. What is it?”
The nightmare grew vivid and his face was scrunched up. He would have to share the memory. It would consume him, otherwise. And besides, his father needed to know. He was as responsible as anyone.
“You know I’ve been bullied all my life.”
His father gulped, audible tension in the grating of his throat. “I’m sorry, son. Brin told me he had seen some things. Said he couldn’t help you.”
The rage flared like a furnace. “Help me? He was part of the gang.”
There was only silence. The shadows continued to dance the perimeter.
“I have failed you, son. I’m sorry. I never should have let your mother name you.” To his credit, he sounded embarrassed.
All fifteen years of his life were forcing their way inexplicably into his head, every damn painful moment of it. He was on the cusp of something normal, and so his past consumed him. It devoured him. And he needed it to be gone. He may have even loved his father these last few days, but he still hated him certainly. He hated him with a passion born of suffering. The man had to know.
“Do you know what they did to me, father?”
Tears screamed for release, but he held them at bay, gulping them down. Not yet. There would be time for that when he was allowed to have his childhood. But here, he was still the bullied. Here he must be strong.
Because his father was wilting.
“I’m sorry. Of course I know what they did. You came home covered in bruises.” There may have been a reflective glint on his cheek. “And I will repay them everything they did to yer.”
The memories of the violations surfaced and tears started rolling. Resistance was failing. His whole body tensed at the memory, and he pulled away from his father. Intimacy would forever be his worst enemy.
“No father, you won’t. There’s no way you can inflict that punishment.”
His father seemed incensed. It was as if he suddenly recognised a great debt that needed paying. “I will, son. There is no punishment that I will not repay a thousand times over! What could they possibly have done that you consider untouchable?”
It was all but over. He would not last much longer. He had to say it, and then he had to go.
“They used me like a woman, father. They used me like the woman that my name dictates.”
Never before had his father stared at him like that. It was torture and satisfaction rolled into one. He got up and walked to his room. When he had finished pummelling the wall, his fist was bloodied. He only slept when the tears of his childhood had dried up.
________
When the King turned up the following day – an entire entourage in attendance – he was expecting the order to retreat to the bowels of the smithy. But despite the tension that separated him from his father, he was allowed to stay. His father wanted him by his side. Maybe that was partial payment for the debt. Was that fair? They could discuss that later. This was an opportunity, and anger would not ruin his path to purpose. His life was on track because of this blade, and he needed that to continue. This was a turning point, and his past would not prevent it.
He kneeled as etiquette dictated.
The King stood before them, looking remarkably plain if truth be told. He was ageing, snow spreading through his thick beard and cascading about the golden crown. His cloak was silver-blue, Delfinia’s colours, but beneath that fine garment he was in rather plain clothing. Fine, but plain. Only the high leather boots suggested obvious wealth.
“I hear it’s a fine weapon.” News travelled, apparently. Either that or the King had eyes everywhere.
“Aye, she’s a beauty.”
Everyone in the smithy was on their knees, excepting his father. But even though he was on his knees, he was forward and prominent. That was a rarity in his short life. He only managed infrequent glances from his low vantage, peeking at the King’s Guard in their brightly polished armour, but then he felt eyes upon him and he forced his head down. A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder, and he was ushered up. And there he was, standing before the King. Remarkably, this was the second time in his life, and he smiled broadly.
But the last time, he had been sitting and he’d been beaten to the brink. The King would not see that same soft child here. That was probably good. Here he could stand with the straight back of the proud. Pride. It was such a foreign sensation.
“This is my son...” And there it was. His old man refrained from using his embarrassing girl’s name. Damn, that was warming. He may even entirely forgive the man for that gesture alone. His father continued, “he helped with the work.”
And then a young man stepped forward. The youth – who was wearing similar robes and arguably more elaborate underclothes than the King – was a mimic of the older man facially. His chin tapered and he had the high cheekbones that singled him out as high-nobility. The hair was still rich gold and thick, and the fairness of his skin suggested the young man was little older than himself. And with a flash of the other’s smile, he recognised the youngster.
He had been at the library too. He was the son and the heir.
“Then I thank
you.” There was the faintest whiff of recognition in the eyes of the prince. Did he really remember? Would he say anything? His heart skipped and his anger warmed his gut, but the heir turned away. Nothing said and nothing truly recognised. Perhaps.
“I offer this fine decorative dagger as a gift for the work. It would not stand up to your fine craftsmanship, but it has its own subtle worth, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Hardly subtle. It was glittering with jewels. The blade was quickly in his father’s hands, and he almost reached out for his portion.
But he stopped himself. He was still bottom, and he did not need that symbol of recognition. He had the firm hand of his father, and the knowing smile of the heir of Delfinia. It was a high point for certain. And perhaps more than that, he had his purpose. He had a genuine purpose. His life had turned for the good, and he wanted to live his name. The remainder of the exchange passed him by.
He may never beat a mandahoi, and for that he was sorry. But he could damn well make weapons as good as they could, and in the end, that was enough. Excitement blossomed, and those words that he’d obsessed over leaked out of his mind. He didn’t need them anymore. He had a name, and he had a purpose. He was the smith.
As he followed his father to the rear of the smithy for a drink – a celebratory drink! – his eldest brother offered a threatening smile. But he would ignore it, or at least he would ignore it for now. In