My Quiet Life As A Blacksmith Novels & Stories

“Some of it’s reproduction and you know it.” Vivienne closed her eyes briefly — Eleanor could not see this, but she could hear it, the fractional pause that preceded her mother’s highest register of restraint. “I am not opposed,” she said, which was her highest register of resignation, “to kindness and intelligence. I am asking you to consider what you are proposing. You have a life. Obligations. A legacy.” “I know what I have, Mother.” “And what does he have?” Eleanor thought of the workshop. The chisels laid in order. The window light falling across a half-finished chair. The bottle labeled ghost. The unhurried way he moved through the world, like someone who had made peace with it.

I couldn’t speak until I was eight years old. Everyone in the Sterling family called me dumb. Even my mother would secretly wipe away tears, convinced she had given birth to an autistic daughter. Whenever my father looked at me, his eyes were filled with nothing but disappointment. However, for the sake of the family’s reputation, he could never bring himself to send me away to a special education school. Then came the day someone from a prominent hedge fund company arrived to acquire our family company, Sterling Group. He was so arrogant that he chewed out everyone in the boardroom until all of them hung their heads low. The room full of corporate executives fell silent, too terrified to

It was slow, but I could move it. Like I was completing some grand project, I crookedly embroidered one extra word beside the "Happy Family" stitch by stitch, thread by thread. "Quiet." I floated back a few steps and examined my work carefully. Then, I nodded in satisfaction. I thought it was not bad. Mom would definitely be happy when she saw it. Then she wouldn't regret giving birth to me anymore, right? Humming an off-key tune, I floated over to Dad's desk. There was dust on it. I blew and blew to clear it away.

We were the gardeners of a new, iron eternity, and we were planting our seeds in the soot. ​As the sun reached its zenith, it was a dim, watery light that couldn't penetrate the thick smoke hanging over the valley. I felt the absence of the resonance as a cold, sharp blade in my chest, but I ignored it. I had work to do. I was no longer a legend in an obsidian circle. I was a technician of the human spirit, trying to keep the machine running until we found a better way to live. The legend of the Black Mountain was a story for people who had never known the weight of a wrench or the heat of a forge.

I wasted no time and began working diligently, my fingers dancing across the weapons, adorning them with intricate patterns and symbols. Hours passed swiftly, and I found myself engrossed in my task. I lost track of time, wholly consumed by the rhythm of my work. But eventually, the persistent rumbling in my stomach reminded me of the passage of time. I excused myself, leaving the blacksmiths to their forge and other designers, and headed towards the nearby woods to relieve myself and find a moment of solitude.

The hammer will not help, nothing in this world will help, it will not save. – Hello, Zoran, – Radolyub smiled. “We haven’t seen each other for a long time, and the forge, I see, is flourishing. Do not sit without orders. But maybe we have time? There is one thing for you. The blacksmith took a breath, not taking his wary, full of melancholy gaze from the stranger. Somehow he felt doomed. The guy walked around the forge, looked around the walls, hung with ready-made weapons, smiled a little.

"I hope you know your place. Since you're back, go make some soup. Rhianne likes what you cook. She treated you well all those years—you're not going to refuse, are you?" Making soup was the only skill I had mastered over the past 20-odd years, all thanks to the two men standing before me. Now, they wanted me to make it for someone else. Had this happened in the past, I would have put up a fight. But now, I merely nodded calmly. "I'm on it." I wasn't sure how I made it to the kitchen, but the act of staying busy helped me forget many things. Things like unhappiness and exhaustion. Having received wind, Rhianne showed up in the kitchen shortly after. "El, thank you for cooking for me."

— declared the red-haired blacksmith. — You'll have more time to work for us! You stay here until breakfast, don't you? — asks the skinny long-bearded blacksmith whom I give the coal bag. — I will do my best to help! —I answer and give the gray-haired blacksmith the copper bag. — With men missing, even half a man already helps! — He answers. I now had my anvil and hammer. My task was just to put pieces together and heat the metals, but I have to admit that a blacksmith's job is very cool! Turning the iron rod into a sword or shield is difficult and tiring, but cool.

she cried to us as she handed us the painting that was meant for us. I just smiled at her as she hugged us. I looked down at the painting I was holding. "Life in the Darkness" — The Woman Who Lived in the Dark." ** Life in Darkness has signed off.

This Kingdom is damn rich! I got back in the blacksmith's house. I didn't know what to say, I don't know where exactly I am or how I got here. "I'm Amos, a Blacksmith as you can see" The man said calmly, I walked closer to him and picked up a sword he just completed. It burned my palm and I quickly dropped it. "I was just about to tell you to be careful" Amos said and examined my palm. The burn slowly disappeared and Amos looked at my face in surprise.