literature

Fantasy Story

Deviation Actions

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Literature Text

Mid-morning light poured through the loft window above the blacksmith’s shop and onto the face of the young man, David, who should’ve been awake an hour ago.  He rolled onto his side to avoid the glare, stayed there for a few seconds, then jolted up into a sitting position, bumping his head on the low roof.  

“Ouch!” he grabbed his shirt, pulling it on as his feet navigated the ladder down to the kitchen-half of the room below.    

“Oh!  David, slow down!” said his mother when he bumped into her.

“But you know how he gets when I’m late!”

“Yes, but if you break something in your haste he’ll be worse!”

“Yes mother.” That was true enough.  

“Here’s your breakfast.  There’s no excuse worth missing a hearty meal.”

“Thanks, but I really need to get out there.”  David grabbed a biscuit, shoving it in his mouth as he jerked the leather apron hanging beside the door off its hook and put it on.  

David’s father was silent when the son entered the forge--and that was never a good sign.  When he was angry, David’s father would shout and yell like the big angry man he was.  When he was furious, he would go all quiet and wait, like a crouching panther, for the moment to strike.  David hated it.  He had to walk on eggshells all day, but ultimately get exploded at for doing something a fraction off.  He couldn’t win when his father was like that.

“Good morning, father,” David said.  The two often stuck to formalities--in the first place because the father believed in them, and in the second because they were often at odds and had nothing else to rely on.

“Morning.”  The father nodded his head without taking his eyes away from the work.  “The bucket,” he said, and David hurried to grab it and bring it over to him, whereupon his father plunged the searing piece of metal he was working on into the liquid with a sharp hiss; steam sputtered up towards his father’s gloved hand.

“David, we have worked together here for a very long time.”  The tone of voice was different from anything David had heard before--calm, way too calm.  “And you know the rules.  Yet, since the day you turned eighteen, you seem to think they don’t apply to you.  At least three times this week you failed to appear for breakfast, and now here you are again--late.”

“I’m sorry, father, I--”

“No, no excuses.”

“I will do better--”

“And none of that either.  David, you say that every time.  And even when grace us with your presence at the morning meal, don’t think I fail to notice the dark circles that are growing under your eyes.  You keep staying up, despite what that means for your health and ability to work.  I can’t have you falling asleep in here or worse, dropping something.  We’re blacksmiths!  Take pride in your state in life, and respect it!”

“Yes sir.”  David felt a weight in his shoulders--the weight of what his father was demanding he give up, albeit without knowing.  Every night when David  stayed up he didn’t just sit idly in the loft.  No, he didn’t ask a friend to smuggle candles, parchment, and ink to him just so that he could look at them.  He was staying up late into the night to write.   

- -

The rest of the morning went as well as it could when David’s father was in such a mood.  Lunch finally came, and David headed out to Gwen’s house.

Gwen was the one who smuggled him candles, parchment, and ink.  She’d also been his best friend since the two were infants--based on a friendship that began between their mothers.  They always had lunch together in Gwen’s front yard, beneath a beautiful old oak tree in the middle of the field.  David always got there first, and Gwen would come out when she saw him.  He could always tell, just from the way she moved, what her mood would be.  

It wasn’t  drastic things like whether she walked or ran, skipped or dragged her feet.  It was something much more subtle, like the way she responded to the wind tossing her hair, or whether she gripped the fabric of her skirt tightly when she lifted it, walking through tall grass, or her fingers held the material with a more delicate grasp.  They had been friends since childhood, after all, and he could read almost as well as his own family.

Today, her head was bent down and stiff; the wind pushed a stray hair across her face and instead of flicking her head, she reached up and moved it aside, her hand lingering beside her face, her fingers closing over her palm.  The drawn line made by her mouth was reminiscent of her thoughtful expression, but lacked the furrowing of the brow.

When she neared the tree and looked up, she smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.  David’s prediction was sealed.

“Greetings, Gwen.”

“Greetings.”

“How are you?”

“Oh, I’m okay.”

She did not sound okay, and this was the part where David’s skill fell apart.  Now, if he had been upset, Gwen would know exactly what to say.  Not him.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s just… it’s my grandmother.”

“Oh.”  

(italics) Yeah, ‘oh,’ thought David.  It wasn’t like Gwen’s grandmother was one of the most important people to her.  

“We just got word that she’s very ill, but you know how slow the post is--cross-country by carriage can’t hope to be faster than the spread of disease--so she could be much worse by now.”

Gwen and her grandmother had been exchanging letters since the day Gwen could hold a pencil, it seemed, and despite they only met face to face rarely, they were very strong friends.

“And my parents will allow me to travel there.”

“Wait, by yourself?”  David’s concern shot up.  He did worry, at least a little bit, when she had emotional issues, but traveling all that way?  Alone?  And with the rise of bandits and thieves along the way?  That was crazy.  “Gwen, what about the bandits?  How can your parents allow this?”

“My brother is coming, and some hired swords; I’ll be all right.”

“No Gwen,” David said fiercely.  “You will not.  It’s dangerous on that road.”

“David.”  She would not be intimidated by him--she never was.  “You have no say in the matter.”  

“Maybe I do…” he replied. “what if I come with you?”

She stared at him for a moment, face blank with surprise, and he watched closely as it morphed into subtle disbelief.

“Mmhmm…”

“No, Gwen, I mean it.  I’d feel better about your situation… and it would let me get away from mine.”

“Your father…?”

“Yeah, he’s been really bad lately.  Something’s bugging him.”

“Maybe those late nights.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Why can’t you just stay on a normal schedule?”

“Hey, who’s side are you on?”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, I want to come with you.  I could set up with a blacksmith and stay out of your hair once we got there, but be around for the journey itself.  You’ll need company, won’t you?”

She laughed.  “David, you’re like a little puppy.  ‘Take me with you, take me with you…’ you’ve even got the big eyes.”  She giggled, and even though he was embarrassed for a second, the expression in (italic)her eyes, muted and warm, caught him off guard.

“Well,” he said, his voice soft, “can I come?”

They looked at each other for a moment, and she was about to respond, when a  voice shouted “Gwen!” from the house.  

They both immediately got busy--David cleaning up his sack and utensils, Gwen gathering her skirt to stand.

“I’ll ask, you ask,” she said.

“Okay, I think I can convince my Dad… how long are you staying?”

“Three months.”

“Okay.  Bye Gwen.”

“Bye David.”

He paused and watched her walk away, turning back towards home so that he missed her quick glance his way.
Quick upload before I leave--
this is a newer, longer version of the story I uploaded as "is this realistic?"
I'll fix the italics later.

So far so good?
© 2009 - 2024 mackwrites
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Athazagoraphobias's avatar
I'm liking this, for sure! :)

I'm just a little confused about Gwen's grandmother. First you've written that "It wasn’t like Gwen’s grandmother was one of the most important people to her" but later on you've also written that "...they were very strong friends". To me, this seems like a bit of a contradiction (if that is the right word). It doesn't seem right for a 'very strong' friend to not be so important to the character...