The Hands of Kings
“Someday I’ll meet the king,” I repeated with each blow of my hammer. The red steel flashed white, sparks burst, and then the sword fell back to orange. My leather-clad hand turned the hilt, and struck again. The pattern repeated, as did those words. My arms were numbing, and the lids of my eyes snuck closer together. Their inevitable kiss far off, but still they persisted.
The blade began to fade into cold black, so I lifted it from the anvil and turned swinging at the hot air behind me. Its weight almost carried me to the ground as the tip brushed the hard stone floor. Still too heavy, I decided, shoving it back into the blazing forge. The coals popped and hissed as the blade dove deep into it’s belly. My mantra, the only fresh thing in this smoky room, seemed worthless in my mind, so I tested it on the fire.
“Someday, I’ll meet the king,” I said, as confident as my sixteen Summers could muster. The hearth mocked me and a distant laughter drifted through the smoke. Astonished, I moved closer as the laughter grew in intensity. “I will,” I said, pushing the pommel aside and leaning in towards the coals. “Someday, I, Semiver Caminus, will meet the King of Meduen.”
I peered deep into the still laughing flames. Anger burned along my face and I grabbed the hilt of the now glowing blade, and shoved it deeper into the fire. My force halted only by the hard back of the forge and a sudden silence that filled the room.
I grabbed the sword, ripping it free from the heat and slammed it down upon the anvil. I lifted the hammer high above my sweating head. Before I could swing though, I noticed a shape by the door, and realized my father, Dextum, was standing with crossed arms and a scowl. His stature was imposing, and the way he walked towards the water bucket, pulling off his leather gloves, and slipping out of his blackened apron made me nervous. He never took off his equipment until I had finished my work.
“Father,” I said.
He grunted in response. His hands buried in the bucket, I could hear the stones and water splash and grind against them. He turned to me, wiping the excess water on his pants and smiled.
“So, you’re going to meet the King I hear?” he asked, as my face grew hot once more. Before I could speak, he answered for me. “A noble goal Sem, but be reasonable, son. If I, in my many Summers, and even more Moons, have only caught a brief glimpse of one of the three kings that have ruled during my life. What chance do you have? You’re but an echo of a shadow.”
He turned away for a moment, plunging his hands back into the bucket for a second rinse. As if my dreams had somehow sullied them. I knew that his words were not meant to cause me harm, but even if my chances were as slim as rats within a princes bed, I would try.
My chest heaves and I lifted the hammer, poised to strike before the blade cooled and was useless to work upon.
“Sem!” my father snapped before I could follow through with my swing.
“Yes?” I replied.
“Set the hammer down, and I better never see you raise that tool in anger again, unless you plan on killing someone with it. It’s just metal, it will break if pressed to hard.”
“But–”
“But nothing,” he replied, “the blade can wait till tomorrow, or a fortnight if that’s how long it takes, but it won’t be finished tonight.”
I sighed, and placed the hammer in its holster below the anvil, and shed my gloves. I walked towards the bucket. I washed my hands in silence, watching my father. He was seated on a low stool, his back resting on the armor rack behind him. The click and clang of metal as he moved seemed comforting beside the sounds of the forge. I looked at my father’s charred and ash smeared head, as he rocked back and forth, letting the two front legs tap against the stone.
I walked passed him, towards the door.
“Sem,” he called in a hushed tone. “Com here for a moment, we need to talk.”
I turned and moved back towards him. He looked up and our brown eyes met for an instant before he closed his and rubbed them with his fists.
“Kneel down in front of me,” he said.
I let my right knee bend, and the left touch the stone. My father raised his hand, his palm, and fingertips pointed towards the floor.
“I want you to see my hand. Truly look at it. I’m not going to hurt you, I just want you to really look at it,” he said in a solemn tone.
I peered at his bent fingers, wondering what I was supposed to see. Was it the flat, dirty nails, the meaty fingers that dwarfed my own slender stalks, or the protruding knuckles, scraped and raw from years of labor and battle? I took his hand in both of mine, and realized how easily his one could take both of mine and crush them. The scars danced across his hand in the flickering firelight, and with each new scar revealed, an old scar, an ancient story, was either hidden or crossed with another, just as old. In his hand I saw my father’s entire life played out on a stage of flesh covered muscle, and muscle covered bone,
My father stood, looking down at me. “Remember this moment well, Semiver Caminus. And when you kneel before your King, I want you to ask yourself. What’s the difference between the hands of blacksmiths and the hands of Kings.”
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