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Now Irian stokes it, piling on more wood and lots of coal until the flames are high and sparking and spitting.
Irian’s clothes are all cotton, too, but he doesn’t wear any protective covering like leather gloves or boots. He doesn’t even wear anything to cover his face. Instead, he relies on his scales, dark blue and gray, to be protection enough.
After he has the fire roaring and sparks spattering all over the place, Irian takes me outside again to tell me exactly what I will be doing.
“You’ll be responsible for very little. For now.” He grunts as he eyes me.
He’s sizing me up,I think to myself grimly.He’s trying to figure out how to get rid of me. He’s wondering how I got this job in the first place.
Working in the armory was difficult. But I threw myself into it and got to know each of the weapons individually until I could find any of them in the dark or with my eyes closed.
I’ve learned how to take care of them. I love them, and I wear the evidence all over my hands and arms, which are scarred from knives and swords that slipped from my hands when I first started working in the armory.
After a while, the scars didn’t matter. After a while, I loved the blades more than I cared about the beauty of my skin.
After a while, a nick or scratch here or there didn’t bother me. Instead, it just drove me forward, encouraging me in a manner that I know deep down is sick.
Pain should not be a motivator.
I think I must be wired wrong. Because, after a while, I became determined to master the art of taking care of the blades.
And now I’ll be making them. And this will be even more difficult than simply polishing a sword.
Irian continues speaking. As if, during the silence, he tried and failed to find a reason to get rid of me.
“You’ll keep the fire going. You’ll sort out the metal, sort the good from the bad. You’ll ensure that the place is always clean, and that there aren’t any hazards, especially when the royal guard comes to visit.”
I nod obediently, still keeping my eyes down as Irian speaks in halting grunts about the schedule we’ll be keeping and how Ishould take care of my skin to guarantee that my skin doesn’t dry out and start flaking away.
“Now.” He hitches up the waist of his pants. Pants that he is clearly uncomfortable wearing. “You need to prepare the metal for a bunch of broadswords that the royal guard has commissioned.”
And just like that, we begin.
I have already cut and bruised myself several times by noon cleaning up a bunch of old, rusted swords.
“Fuck,” I gasp as a spark from the fire flutters out of the forge and burns right through the leather glove.
I wince, but do not do much else as the pain settles into my hand, burning and relentless.
The pain is, in a way, a relief.
When I was taken as a slave, I stopped feeling much of anything.
Now, instead of feeling nothing, I strive to feel as much as I can. And that includes feeling as much pain as possible.
You sound really fucking crazy,I think to myself as I start to sweep up the rust from the floor.
I only leave the smithy after dark, and I walk slowly back to the palace, my limbs tired and aching.
I am sweaty, covered in soot and ash, and there are blue streaks up and down my arms where bruises are forming. My hands are practically shredded, so instead of heading to my room, I head to the infirmary where I’ll patch up my hands.
When I get to my room after the infirmary, I fall asleep right away, although the pain follows me into my dreams. It doesn’t let up even when I gasp in my sleep.
I wake up well before dawn and wash myself in the small basin in my room before I slip out quietly and head to the smithy.
The fire is already going, and Irian is already there.
“Forge these,” Irian grunts, directing me to the metal I cleaned off yesterday.
