Reynfrey spent the next couple weeks awake and aware of his surroundings. For those first few days, there was little more than the thatch homestead that he was able to explore. The constant watchful eye of the seemingly perpetually perturbed Elyenora was at first disconcerting, but soon enough, it was clear that she did not know how to appear otherwise. He felt a burden to these people, kind folk just trying to make their way in the world now taking care of a crippled palatine. He would repay them, one way or the next – but unfortunately, his recovery would take time.
After a few days, he ventured outside for one of the first times. It was an experience he hadn’t expected to be as challenging as it was. Even walking out of the small homestead and into the surrounding field required him to dig deep for energy. He was winded before he found himself much farther than a couple of arms lengths from the entryway. Had it not been for Elyenora following a short way behind him to keep an eye on his progress, he may not have made it that far. He was too proud not to push himself.
Every day after was much the same. He’d press himself until he was winded and needed to rest. But each day, he pushed a little further, a little deeper into the fields. On the eighth day, he found himself walking around to the back of the home, a path he hadn’t taken yet since the gently rising hill behind the home might as well have been a mountain for much of his recovery. Each step quaked as he first traveled up the hill, beyond the small roundhouse that the family was kind enough to share with him. The hill served as protection from the elements, kept them a bit warmer in the winter and cooler in the spring, but its loose rocky outcroppings made it a slight challenge for him to climb. His legs were weak, unused for so long, and only just now returning to strength worth mentioning.
The trek had been worth it, though. Cresting that small hill, out of breath and panting more than he would have cared to admit, gave him a warm feeling of accomplishment, one that soon was washed over by a simple and beautiful vista. The top of the hill gave a wonderful view of the village, and the farmlands tucked safely in a large clearing within a dense, old evergreen forest. The forest gave a flash of a memory.
He remembered entering it on some old forgotten path with the rest of his traveling companions. He could remember the trail, the sound of the horses dragging the carriage. The chatter of the souls that walked with him, but then it went silent. The memory faded, and he once again hid it away. He knew he was unprepared to think about those memories, at least not yet.
He took a breath and exhaled slowly. His eyes drifted back to the village, and he scanned as he felt a hand rest on the center of his back. Despite her cold exterior, Elyenora was an ever-present and watchful eye and always willing to offer a hand in support. It was comforting, as comforting as the view of the small village felt to him. These were simple folk, farming the land and making their way in the world. They were willing to help one another and to help strangers. He had come from a different world, a world of stone and stricture, but here there was something more.
That first view would need to end there. He didn’t have the energy to venture into the village. Day after day, he grew stronger, though. The journey from their small home to the village became easier. As harvest came in full, he began helping Elyenora, and her daughter collect baskets of crops, eventually carrying them to the village with them. There came a day when he went with them to visit the smith as well.
Beynard’s smithy was a quaint one, like everything in this town. It was little more than a stone shack with an attached forge covered enough to be worked in the rain. Stacks of supplies sat near the forge, and within the small building were stacks of finished projects – horseshoes, picks, and hoes mostly. When they arrived, the quiet Athelis brought her father a hand-packed meal, his wife gave him a subdued kiss, and he called for Girart to join them. Reynfrey was pleasantly surprised to be invited, but he had energy and a bit of recovery, so he declined. He would let them eat as a family. Instead, he would tend the forge so they could enjoy the meal without the burden of their guest or of checking the forge.
So, there he sat, watching the flames dance as his foot pressed the billows to keep the forge warm and the current batch of iron for horseshoes glowing. It was a slow and boring task to him, though he admired the smith for being able to do it day in and day out, seemingly with little complaint. He found himself losing track of time, though, staring into that forge.
“Entranced by the fire, ser Palatine?” Beynard laughed, and that broke him from the reverie under which he had fallen.
Reynfrey blinked and shook his head, “I suppose so.”
“Fire does that,” The smith gave him a fine smack on the back. “It purifies through destruction, whether your iron or your mind.” He sighed a bit, “I’ll admit, I rarely think clearer than when working with the forge.” He gave a waving motion back towards the shack. “Come now. You’ve made it this far, and I might as well show you around.”
“Show me around?”
“Yes. You came all this way. And Girart can take over the forge. He needs the practice anyway,”
The boy seemed to hear his name from a distance, and he came around a corner expectantly. Reynfrey stood up and stretched just a bit, before stepping away from the forge, and the boy took his spot quickly – taking over exactly where he had left off, without skipping a step.
The smith didn’t wait for a real answer and began to move towards the shack. He explained a couple of things along the way, pointed out sights that Reynfrey had already seen, obvious items. It confused the Palatine slightly. Once they were back into the shack, though, the man took him to a far corner, where a small shelf sat on the floor and held thick ingots of iron. “Help me move this?” Beynard asked as he put his hands on one edge of the shelf.
Reynfrey nodded and sought a grip. For a moment, he instinctively raised both arms, only to be greeted again by the stump on his strong arm. He sighed and readjusted, putting his hand on the inside of the shelf. With a grunt, he and the smith pushed the shelf a few feet to one side, revealing a trap door beneath. “Just a smith and his veela wife?”
“Name a self-respecting smith that doesn’t have a hidden basement,” The man laughed as he pulled up the door. “Can you climb a ladder?”
“I suppose so,” The Palatine said with a nod, waving his lost arm lightly. “I can at least use this for balance.”
“Good. Follow me.”
The smith descended the ladder quickly. The Palatine struggled more than he would have liked to admit. He had to carefully grip and move, watching every step with a focus that would normally only found in treacherous conditions, but to him, this was a new experience. It wasn’t slick, but one wrong move, and he knew he would tumble down. Soon enough, though, he had reached the bottom of the rungs and stepped on a soft dirt floor. He was surprised, though, to find it dimly lit. He turned, expecting a torch, but there was none that he could see. The light came from a hole in the ceiling. He couldn’t make out anything, but the sunlight shone rather brightly for such a small hole. It was curious to him. When he stopped being amazed by that, he found himself staring at a small armory, broken weapons and armor scattered about the floor.
There, in the center of the far wall sat the shattered remains of his shield. His sword lay next to it. It caused the Palatine to stop in his tracks. For a moment, he couldn’t find a breath. He heard that awful sound that shattering of wood and steel as an enemy’s mace splintered the shield. He swallowed and shook his head as if to shake away the ghosts of the path physically. He finally just asked, “What is this?”
“I kept my own treasures down here,” Beynard said quietly, looking around the room. “I hope you won’t be too offended,” He said with a soft, somehow saddened smile. “I gave your compatriots a decent burial but salvaged what I could. A single fine sword,” The smith paused, if only for a moment, “I can reforge and make a lot of useful tools for the village.”
There was a moment of instinctive anger at that concept, but it quickly faded. Pragmatism, it seemed, was something that Reynfrey felt more important now than he would have when all of this started. “It’s fine,” He heard himself say, “They won’t be needing them any longer.” The term was a bit colder than it needed to be. There was a fit of bubbling anger there.
“Good… I only left one body with all its accouterments,” The smith replied, “The young woman.”
The term turned the Palatine’s skin pale. The blood drained from his face. He could see her in an instant. The warmest of smiles, a boisterous laugh that embarrassed her, a soft voice otherwise. “Then…”
“I know, yes – at least the basics,”
“We failed, then. Not just me, but everyone,” Reynfrey said softly without moving from his spot at the foot of the latter. “It would have been better you left me to die with them.”
The statement made the smith nod, “Failure isn’t the end of a story. It’s tempering. A point of growth. I don’t believe it would have been better for you,”
Reynfrey raised his hand and interrupted, “No, I agree on failure, but,” He shook his head. “The young woman was Saint Adelysia.”
“Oh,” The smith now too became pale, “Then it may have been best if we all had joined you.”