Chapter 2. Midnight Toil

  The moon sat silently in the cloudless sky by the time Theodrens weary eyes wrenched themselves from the dry parchment containing an even drier description of the reproductive system.

  He sighed, the old master's writings, while extensive, were based on an out of date understanding of the “wamb” and its wandering properties. All of his books were similar. Mostly incorrect musings of stuffy old masters with the rare nugget of wisdom.

  He rose from his old leather chair, perhaps the only luxury he had brought with him from his old life as a nobles son. Stumbling past the bed that he knew should have been his destination, he made his way to the small forge he had made for himself behind the church.

  Theodren piled the furnace with kindling and coal, ordering the process of ignition in his minds eye. “Air, plus fuel plus energy equals… there we are!” He fueled the tiny flame on his fingertip with what little divine thread he had been blessed with. The miniscule amount of power he had at his disposal was thanks to the blessing of the Weaver.

  While he tried to be grateful for the power he had that others did not. It seemed almost ironic that he had enough to be whisked away from his family and the life he expected for himself. But not quite enough to be considered suitable for anything beyond the small town too inconsequential even to have a name.

  Lost in thought he handed off the tiny flame to the kindling as he grabbed the bellows waiting for the flame to need his assistance. Drumming his fingers along the wood he fruitlessly sought the answers he couldn’t find from his books in the gently dancing flames of his furnace.

  He hadn’t told Eleina the truth. How could he? He stuttered out an excuse of needing to research and interpret the signs. He could tell that she wasn’t convinced. She was his first true friend since he had come to the village only a year ago.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  It was only at her insistence that the townspeople even spoke to him. Most men of the cloth were seen as lofty bureaucrats. More interested in the facade of benevolence than the purveying of it. And certainly no one was inclined to welcome someone who dwarfed their humble door frames in such dramatic fashion as the well fed son of a noble he was.

  It was Eleina who berated the townspeople into giving him a chance his second day making his rounds through the village. While not in possession of much power to speak of, he was never one to shirk a task.

  “Only a bad craftsman blamed his tools” he grumbled remembering his father’s guidance. And speaking of tools, he thought to himself. He turned his mind to the task at hand.

  No amount of brooding would provide him the answers he wanted. He didn’t even know what the problem was yet.

  He did know that Pieter needed a new shovel, especially since his old one had snapped in his hands while he mucked out the last stall. Sighing at the memory, he lamented how everything in this little back water seemed to crumble under his hands. Perhaps he truly was cursed, he chuckled.

  Theodren was not an exceptionally skilled smith, but as a boy he loved to watch the blacksmiths of his fathers estate hammer out the steely works of bladed art his fathers lands were known for. This shovel would be no such masterpiece. But it would be sturdy.

  Pulling out the glowing orange ingot from the fire, he got to work. Being possessed of the thread of order helped him to see the process through which the shovel should take shape. He hammered out the crude iron to the shape the thread deemed appropriate, and then began hammering out the imperfections.

  Returning the shovel head to the fire every so often to return it to a more malleable shade of orange until at last he could quench the almost finished product with a hiss that pierced the pre-dawn air. It was then a simple task to attach a worthy handle and set it aside for his trip into town.

  Theodren released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding as he leaned against the anvil watching the fingers of dawn slowly grip the sky. He knew he would pay for this sleepless night throughout the day, but truly the Weaver must have good tidings for a day that started with such splendor in the sky.

  He heaved his bulk off the anvil and trudged back to his room. He would need a wash and clean robes before he went into town. He stripped and began washing himself with the rag and basin set in the corner of his quarters. No need for warm bath water when the summer air was as warm as it was, he mused.

  Finally presentable in a slightly snug smock and smelling of Polly the herbalist's new soap he propped the shovel over his shoulder and began the trek into town.