April 10, 2008
First Memory.
His earliest memory was of cold and damp. It was not a pleasant memory, but only in a childish and simple way.
Later, as he ran from the sea, his brother’s mockery ringing in his ears, his mind flew back to that first memory, and he thought he saw a violent ocean before the memory faded again.
His worst nightmares were always of water. He was too close to it – far too close – and the gray, roiling sea was reaching up with hungry hands, eager to extinguish him. Those waves would fall back as he struggled away, only to rise again, and again, and again…
Later, while he was imprisoned, with nothing to do but sleep and work, he dreamed it often. In those later nightmares, the sea had caught him, and was holding him fast, and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t get away, and it was going to drown him…
Then, after his brother and that lady helped him fly free of his prison, he fell. The sea rushed up to meet him, and he felt his old, childish fear seize his throat, and as his vision went gray something else seized him…
…And he woke to strong hands wrapped around him, and the sea too close, and as he struggled, the arms holding him tightened, and a warm voice whispered in his ear, and Weilend felt the last fragments of childhood memory pop into place, and he relaxed into his father’s arms and slept.
—
Flame Imperishable.
It was finished.
He held the new-forged sword in his hand, watching with expert eyes as the blade transformed into the purest white light, driving back all manner of lesser lights. His own fire, usually as red and strong as the earth’s own heart, flickered and blued where his hand rested on the sword’s hilt. Nodding in satisfaction, the smith sheathed the sword.
The room was instantly plunged into darkness. Silently, the smith began to count the seconds.
There. Slowly, the lesser lights were coming back, creeping hesitantly back into their places, wavering as they wondered about the great light that had revealed itself only moments before. Nodding in satisfaction, the smith stopped counting.
Casting one last look about his forge, the man left, gingerly stepping past the spring that burbled merrily near its door. Clutching his dark cloak tightly about him, the smith hurriedly climbed the massive tree, glancing neither left nor right, intent on his path.
The gateway loomed ahead of him, and he moved swiftly through it. His pace never slackened until he came to a weathered shack. As he flung open the beaten door, he flung off his cloak, letting his fire burn up around him.
“Here is the great sword, new-forged by Weilend-smith’s own hand. It shall be as your right hand, always at your side, keen to defend you. Take it now from the hands of the Flame Imperishable and prove your worth to all with eyes to see!”
In the Labyrinth.
Bothvild stood outside the door, listening to the sibilant mutterings and the eerie, whistling cries coming from the room within. The fiery red glow that marked the smith’s presence wandered back and forth across the forge as Weilend paced. Steeling herself, Bothvild opened the door.
A fiery hand that somehow avoided burning her seized her arm. “What do you want, captor’s daughter?” asked the mad smith.
Trembling, Bothvild extended a cracked ring. “M-my father sent me to give this to you, and request that you repair it.” The princess flinched as Weilend snatched it from her fingers.
A strange light sparked in Weilend’s eyes, almost a light of recognition. Then he blinked, and it was gone. Unsure, Bothvild backed up.
Weilend chuckled. “Are you afraid of me, captor’s daughter?”
Bothvild swallowed, trying to force some cooperation from her dry tongue. “My name is Bothvild.”
“I don’t really care.” Weilend walked away from her, turning the ring over in his hand. “Get me out of here, and you might deserve a name.”
“I can’t.”
A glare from eyes that crackle with genuine flames is very unnerving. “Are you your father’s daughter?” He snapped the broken ring in two.
Bothvild fled.
She collected herself halfway down the first bend. Am I my father’s daughter?
In the back of her mind, an idea began to form.
