Family Isn't Always Blood

Family Isn't Always Blood

Jaiden DeMoss

Chapter 1

The Recruit

It was a nice, crisp fall day, light, wispy clouds in the air, with the sun gently beaming down on me, like a father's pride. Leaves slowly spiraling down onto the dirt road from the tree that looks as if on fire, with a slight breeze that carries the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery. I take a deep breath, enjoying this while it lasts.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

I hammer the sword, soon to be the butcher's killing sword. As I submerge it in water with one hand, I eat my lunch, a bird leg of some kind, with the other. Some people say that I am Hephaestus himself. I am not, of course, but just a mortal. I think of my son, and pull the sword out too soon. It warps into a slight L shape, kind of like the swords the Egyptians use. I sigh. It is still usable, but not sellable. I put the sword in my own stash, and pull out another strip of iron.

I set the strip in my forge burner, and prepare another barrel of water. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harold walking away, head down, shoulders hunched. He sighs, and hides the little hammer pendant inside his oversized brown-tan tunic. He drags his feet onto the main road, and sulks down an alleyway. I wonder what's got the lad upset? I think as I hammer this sword, and submerge it into the water. Again, I pull it out too soon, making a copy of the first.

I sigh. I need a break, I decide, and walk over to my little gate. I walk out into my minuscule yard, and onto the main street. Unintentionally, I realise I'm following the path Harold took. Left. Right. Right. Straight. Left. I see him sitting by the water hole, a small little well built into the ground with a deep red roof, and dull gray stones for the wall, packed tightly between two buildings. He sits back on it, head still down.

"Harold,"

He looks up, clearly startled.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, "Yes Theneay? Do you need more water?"

"No Harold. I would like to know something,"

"What?" He inquizes.

"How old you are,"
He stares blankly at me, not comprehending the question. Then the gears click.

"I, I don't know sir. If I were to guess, I'd say about eighteen years. Why?"

"Nothing of concern, Harold. Nothing of concern,"

I pause to look at him for a moment longer, then turn to leave.

Before I actually get to walking through, Harold stops me.

"Th-theneay. The apprentice ceremony is coming up soon. I was, uh, hoping that you would be my mentor?"

I smile, although he can't see me.

"Let's see if you can. Grab some water and meet me at the forge."

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I watch Theneay prepare the forge for metalwork by fanning the fire, shoveling in some coals, and opening the vent. He puts on a thick cloth apron over his usual scratchy stone-gray tunic and rough blood red shorts. He slips on shoe covers over his basic, three strap sandals to protect his toes, and puts on a visor of some kind that blocks his multicolored eyes, his right abyssal-black , and his left a pale blue, useless, with the scar over his left eye, and oak-bark colored hair from being seen.

"Harold. Grab the flattening hammer, the grindstone, and the stylus," He tells me.

"Yes sir," I say energetically, and grab each tool without hesitation.