Poem Village Blacksmith Novels & Stories

Helena found the new village he settled as a blacksmith and through the smoke and noise made by the men and women working around him she once again melted at the sight of him. She stood outside the shop where the blacksmiths worked hard, unable to do anything but stare at the beauty of Demeus as he worked hard at shaping a tool, regardless of the people who watched her with curiosity. Then he looked up and saw her standing there and just like her in stared as though she was an apparition conjured from his dreams. He slowly stood up and approached her and they came together as though the longing they both felt was a magnetic force pulling them both together. Right then in the middle of the cr

he began, “two humans fell in love. One was a blacksmith, the other a handmaiden. They snuck out beneath a cloak of stars, and made love under the light of the moon every night. They lived a simple life, in a small, rural village. It was said to be ruled by the monarchy, but in truth it was governed by the whims of merchants and soldiers. “Arcarius, the blacksmith, crafted fine weaponry. Merythia was handmaiden to a young princess – a young princess who had caught the eye of a foreign invader. Their village was sieged, and both the weapons and the princess were targeted. As the moon rose, both Arcarius and Merythia fell.” I frowned up at him. “That’s horrible.” “Don’t worry. It gets worse.”

Ribs pressing against his skin like a washboard. The blacksmith was a one-eyed old man with a vicious temper who forged blades that never broke. Every soldier in the camp came to him for repairs. Rex crouched outside the smithy for three days, watching the old man work the iron. The metal in the furnace bloomed orange-red. The old man pulled it free with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and struck. Sparks burst with every hammer blow. Burn scars covered his hands, layered over each other like the bark of an ancient tree.

The air inside the lower forges was a sweltering suffocating wall of sulfur, coal smoke, and radiating thermal heat. Down here, deep within the subterranean roots of the Obsidian Hold, the rhythmic thud of heavy iron hammers striking anvils echoed like a frantic metallic heartbeat. But as Silas and I stepped off the stone lift, the sweating blacksmiths and forge masters immediately ceased their labor, dropping heavily to their knees on the soot-stained floor.

On both sides of the road, featureless snowfields stretched as far as the eye could see. “What’s the name of this village, brother?” Andrei asked. The Patrolman spat makhorka-brown spittle. “Little Wells,” he answered. So, this was a village? Svetlana wrinkled her nose. Everybody knew that villages contributed to the defense of Motherland by feeding the cities where the sacred work of manufacturing weapons of Light was being carried on. But Svetlana was a city girl and had no precise image of the countryside beyond the golden sheaves of corn on the cover of her textbook. What she was seeing bore little resemblance to the picture.

Her steps gradually slowed, growing heavier, as if invisible chains were pulling her down. Then the music shifted. Her voice rose, soft at first. But as she continued, emotion began to seep into every word. **“The storm howls across the sleeping village, wind clawing at fragile wooden doors. Yet inside, a single lamp glows warmly, a quiet home untouched by the rage outside. The kettle hums gently upon the stove, and laughter lingers like a fading song. Who would step into the storm, when the hearth burns bright and kind? Who would leave the comfort of home,

he tells me. "I see, so that is why they are staring,” I say. We continue down the street in silence, the only things I hear is the sounds of the city. Wagons thumping against the ground, the neigh of horses and the voices of people talking and laughing. After walking for a while, we finally reach the blacksmith shop Phoenix Fire. It is a little taller than the other stalls and buildings around it. There are dark clouds of smoke pouring from the chimney. I approach the building with a light skip, my cloak flying behind me as I pick up my speed. Reaching the front of the building I peer in.

“The child will have seen half the winter pass before it comes into the world. Who is the man on the road?” “there is no man on the road,” I replied. My fingers, trembling slightly, began again to rub the same spot on the pewter plate with the damp rag, the metal groaning beneath the pressure. “the people of this village have long memories for folks who appear from out of the timber with nothing to record them,” he said. “They like a ledgers and wedding bands,.” “I will bear what the people say,” I answered him, my teeth snapping shut, my eyes fixed on the pewter platter. He lingered for a moment by the door, his cloak stirring in the damp air as he stared at the wet floorboards. Then he lef

Morning came and a bittersweet calm woke me from a restless sleep. Most the shops were closed up and abandoned, but I still went down to the village to gather some fresh fruits. I said my goodbyes to the woodsmith and blacksmith last night and stared at the empty building they once had filled with tools.

She smiled and showed her age with a few missing teeth. After a while, Ivar returned and took Yvayn on a tour. They went to the blacksmith, Ernor, on the eastern edge of town. Yvayn was right about the old man: his metal work was exquisite, even the hinges that held up the doors. “Ernor?” Ivar knocked on the open door of the smoky shop. Black iron tools hung on the walls. A large fire was in a pit just outside the door. A pile of coal was next to it as well as several shovels.