Love As It Was Made to Be: 3.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyHis new body was so powerful. He admired it as he walked into the town, the way his longer legs pushed him along and his arms swung heavy at his sides. The witch’s Sight, as she called her way of seeing the future, had been quite true and precise; the clothing and shoes she had made for him fitted perfectly, though he would have to make himself at least one more tunic. But she could not have made him a weapon, even had she known how.
“You will know it when you see it,” she had told him. “As I said, your body is the way it would have been had you been born with it; you would have trained in a weapon, so your muscles are ready for that weapon. I do not know which is the best for you.”
He had asked about her Sight. She had only smiled.
So he walked into a blacksmith’s shop. As a girl, he had come to this town a few times, mostly with his family, to sell or buy at market. The town itself and the villages that fed into it was small. If he had entered as a girl, he would have been recognized, and he would have been ashamed of his body. As it was, he got nothing more than polite greetings and, to his surprise and great pleasure, a few smiles from girls.
He entered a blacksmith’s shop and got a friendly smile from the man himself, heavily muscled on his left side. “Take this, we have a customer,” he said to a slender boy who must be his apprentice, then came forward, pulling off his heavy gloves. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I… I’d like to see your weapons for sale?” Journey said, hesitating and unsure. He had never done anything like this before. He did not know how one purchased a weapon.
“Certainly,” the blacksmith said, his smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. “From one of the villages, are you? Papa won’t let you play with his sword any more, you need your own?”
“That’s about right, sir,” Journey said, surprisingly comfortable with the story. He’d thought lying would feel awful—his parents had raised their daughter to the strong belief that any deception was a sin—but it seemed that every lie he told, so long as it went along with the fact that he had always been a man, became the truth.
“A fine lad like you ought to have had his own weapon some time ago.” The blacksmith clapped his weaker hand on Journey’s shoulder and led him around the side, to a room hung with weapons of all shapes and sizes. “What’s your name, son?”
“Journey. And I didn’t always look like this; I’ve had a rather surprising growth spurt recently.”
“Well, good for you, Journey.” The blacksmith gestured around at the room. “Take a look, pull down whatever you like, then we’ll talk price.”
Journey nodded and began to walk slowly around the shop, inspecting the weapons. It was mostly swords, of course, those being the most versatile, convenient weapon any man could carry. There were quite a few spear and pike heads waiting to be fitted to shafts, but those were quite obviously not what he was looking for. He reached out to touch the hilts of many of the swords, especially the ones he liked with the ornamented hilts, but nothing seemed to call to him—neither the broadsword nor the two-handed claymore nor the rapier.
There was a tingle in his hand when he touched the handle of a two-bladed axe. He thought that might be it, but kept going just in case. At least his discomfort, wondering what the blacksmith must think of a boy who didn’t know what weapon he wanted, had faded with his concentration on the weapons.
He knew it when he came to it, just as the witch had said. He felt a smile growing in him even before it reached his face, and his hand reached out almost of its own accord to grip the handle of a fighting hammer, with a heavy, rounded head on one side and a wicked point on the other. He lifted it down carefully, not wanting to damage anything, but it seemed to come to life in his hand, forcing him to whip it around, swing it as though striking, and switch sides quickly. He could use it with his left hand as well, though not as effectively as with the right. He had not noticed the calluses on his hand before, but they were there, just where they needed to protect his skin from the heft and scratch of the hammer’s handle.
“This one looks good,” he finally said, bringing it over to the blacksmith, who nodded approvingly. “What’s your price?” Journey asked.
They haggled a bit—mostly, on Journey’s side, for the appearance of it, for the witch had given him more than enough money than he would need for the provisioning he had been sent to do—and then Journey left, exhilarated with happiness for his new weapon, in search of a sturdy belt that he could use to carry the hammer with him.
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“You will know it when you see it,” she had told him. “As I said, your body is the way it would have been had you been born with it; you would have trained in a weapon, so your muscles are ready for that weapon. I do not know which is the best for you.”
He had asked about her Sight. She had only smiled.
So he walked into a blacksmith’s shop. As a girl, he had come to this town a few times, mostly with his family, to sell or buy at market. The town itself and the villages that fed into it was small. If he had entered as a girl, he would have been recognized, and he would have been ashamed of his body. As it was, he got nothing more than polite greetings and, to his surprise and great pleasure, a few smiles from girls.
He entered a blacksmith’s shop and got a friendly smile from the man himself, heavily muscled on his left side. “Take this, we have a customer,” he said to a slender boy who must be his apprentice, then came forward, pulling off his heavy gloves. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I… I’d like to see your weapons for sale?” Journey said, hesitating and unsure. He had never done anything like this before. He did not know how one purchased a weapon.
“Certainly,” the blacksmith said, his smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. “From one of the villages, are you? Papa won’t let you play with his sword any more, you need your own?”
“That’s about right, sir,” Journey said, surprisingly comfortable with the story. He’d thought lying would feel awful—his parents had raised their daughter to the strong belief that any deception was a sin—but it seemed that every lie he told, so long as it went along with the fact that he had always been a man, became the truth.
“A fine lad like you ought to have had his own weapon some time ago.” The blacksmith clapped his weaker hand on Journey’s shoulder and led him around the side, to a room hung with weapons of all shapes and sizes. “What’s your name, son?”
“Journey. And I didn’t always look like this; I’ve had a rather surprising growth spurt recently.”
“Well, good for you, Journey.” The blacksmith gestured around at the room. “Take a look, pull down whatever you like, then we’ll talk price.”
Journey nodded and began to walk slowly around the shop, inspecting the weapons. It was mostly swords, of course, those being the most versatile, convenient weapon any man could carry. There were quite a few spear and pike heads waiting to be fitted to shafts, but those were quite obviously not what he was looking for. He reached out to touch the hilts of many of the swords, especially the ones he liked with the ornamented hilts, but nothing seemed to call to him—neither the broadsword nor the two-handed claymore nor the rapier.
There was a tingle in his hand when he touched the handle of a two-bladed axe. He thought that might be it, but kept going just in case. At least his discomfort, wondering what the blacksmith must think of a boy who didn’t know what weapon he wanted, had faded with his concentration on the weapons.
He knew it when he came to it, just as the witch had said. He felt a smile growing in him even before it reached his face, and his hand reached out almost of its own accord to grip the handle of a fighting hammer, with a heavy, rounded head on one side and a wicked point on the other. He lifted it down carefully, not wanting to damage anything, but it seemed to come to life in his hand, forcing him to whip it around, swing it as though striking, and switch sides quickly. He could use it with his left hand as well, though not as effectively as with the right. He had not noticed the calluses on his hand before, but they were there, just where they needed to protect his skin from the heft and scratch of the hammer’s handle.
“This one looks good,” he finally said, bringing it over to the blacksmith, who nodded approvingly. “What’s your price?” Journey asked.
They haggled a bit—mostly, on Journey’s side, for the appearance of it, for the witch had given him more than enough money than he would need for the provisioning he had been sent to do—and then Journey left, exhilarated with happiness for his new weapon, in search of a sturdy belt that he could use to carry the hammer with him.
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no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 12:09 pm (UTC)So much fun to see him weapons shopping and to see the little touches of how he's slipping into his new life. ^-^
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 05:07 pm (UTC)...or maybe I should take out "than he would need"? Hmm. Which is better: "more money than he would need for the provisioning" or "more than enough money for the provisioning"?
Hehe, thanks!