Love and Bounty

Chapter Six: A Different Kind

With a blow of the bellows, like the breath of Kyne, the flames of Ma's forge swelled with life. The blazing coals burned brighter than the glimmers of dusk well beyond their humble cottage, and the embers swirled as she heated the sliver of dark metal in her grasp. All the while, young Hrolf watched with his pa, who smiled as Ma worked the forge.

"Your mama's the best smith in all of Skyrim," Pa said, one of his dexterous and broad hands on his son's shoulder. "I love watching her work."

Ma shook her head as if annoyed by the interruption, but the gesture was betrayed by the smirk on her face. "You always say that," she uttered, her words trailed by a chuckle.

Pa's smile only widened. "And I always mean it."

She guffawed and wiped away the strands of cornsilk-blond hair stuck to her forehead. "Gods, you must think you're such a charmer..." She raised the glowing rod of the precious ebony metal and began hammering it on the anvil, each blow sending sparks pattering to the bare dirt ground. With a toothy smile, pronounced canines glinting in the forge-light, she said: "Lucky for you, I think so too."

Each time Ma picked up shaping out a blade from the ebony, Hrolf and his pa would sit and watch as the blade slowly took shape before his very eyes. Pa had always told him that Ma was excellent at a forge, but he never got much of a chance to see her process. Now he could see why her shoulders were big and brawny from what must have been decades of toil over arms and armor. Pa told him that she used to keep him and all of their friends equipped for their work, but he always fell short of describing that work.

As the dagger took shape, they would always gather around the forge as the sun began to set, and they would always tell stories of their Atmoran ancestors and the gods they championed. But some days, they would tell grim tales of the friends they had lost in violent battles, and how his birth spared them from the same fate.

It wouldn't.

One crisp and clear night, as Kyne's breath blew life into the coals of ma's forge, her work was nearly done. She took a cold-chisel to the blade and, with Hrolf's little hands in hers, carved out the details that would make the weapon truly his.

"Just like that," Ma instructed, the chisel grinding against the first etchings she'd made. "You're doing good."

"I can see it!" Young Hrolf squealed with excitement, barely able to keep his hands as still as was required.

Ma smiled a bright smile. "What do you see?"

With each groove they made, the details became clearer. The twin moons, pronounced within the blade of the weapon, were hailed by the etchings of wolves howling into the night. Ma guided his hand as they inscribed Nordic runes into the hilt. The angled symbols, according to Ma, said: The Wolf of Legend. It was his namesake—all of it. Had it not been for the firm hold of his mother, little Hrolf would be shaking with excitement.

Once the weapon was finished, they gathered around to admire the dagger of Hrolf's own—a sliver of night against the smithing table.

"It may be a little unwieldy for now," Ma began, "but you'll grow into it."

"Know that it'll always be yours," Pa said. "May you carry it well into your adult years."

Hrolf reached out and grasped the weapon's grooved handle. The balance of weight across the blade was perfect. It was slightly large for his little hands, but there it was—a labor of love. A Wuuthrad of his own. He placed the weapon back down with greater care than he'd handled anything else before and promptly wrapped himself around his parents' legs.

The moons cresting over the horizon, they embraced there as a family.

. . .