Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless)

Prologue- The Blacksmith's Daughter

Small calloused hands worked effortlessly, pounding away at the metal just taken from the fire. The heat of the hearth was much harsher than that of outside, but the girl carried on, far too use to such conditions. The sound of children's laughter was barely heard in the distance, drowned out by the loud pounding of hammer against iron.

In some ways, she was the oddity of the village. Everyone thought her strange for taking up the job that belonged to a man, and everyone found it stranger for her father to allow it. Such were the circumstances, and poverty was out of the question.

But it didn't matter to her anyway. She was a proud thing, brought up in the footsteps of her older brother after he passed from plague. When their mourning period came to an end, she was given the responsibility to continue her father's work.

And she loved it.

She learned to love the sweltering heat, the rhythmic sounds, and the power to turn metal into something much deadlier.

To be a blacksmith was no easy task. Many days and nights were spent with sore arms, burns, and cuts from carelessness at the start of her training, but she was a child then, unaccustomed and lacking experience. With time, she learned.

To be a goldsmith was an even rarer talent, one that required skilled hands to transform precious metals into objects of beauty, capturing visions from another world. With time, she learned.

Hands that created swords of death could create delicate crosses that could bring life to those who believed it so. It was almost empowering.

They were often commissioned to forge items ranging from an armored plate for a soldier, to beautiful earrings for a young noble woman, and no commission was a disappointment.

With the rise of a new monestary came a rise in commissions. Gold and silver were shaped into holy symbols to be blessed by holy men.

"Artemis?"

The girl had been so deep in her thoughts, so intuned with her hammering, she barely heard her father calling from the doorway.

"Artemis!" He tries again, "Child, have I not told you the monestary was to receive their commission today? The abbot is expecting the chalice for holy communion before the festival,"

She finally snaps her attention towards him, rolling her eyes with a smile. She was far past the age of what was considered a child. She was in her 18th year, but her father would always view her as his little girl.

"Yes father," She drawls out, "How could I forget when you insist on reminding me every second?" The older man huffs out, but smiles.

"Well?"

"I've packed up the items into a crate this morning," She removes the leather gloves that felt like a second skin, putting aside the heavy hammer and placing the unfinished sword in a bucket of cold water, "Everything is ready, so I beg you, stop your worries," She shoots her father a look as she removed her apron, smoothing down her white dress. Her father shook his head with another smile, leaving the wooden door open to let out some of the heat.

"Off you go then, before I marry you off to the butcher's son. He would make a fine husband, would he not?" He teases, and his daughter immediately scoffed.

"You've been saying that for years. You know I wouldn't make a suitable wife." He laughs at her scowl, putting on his own gloves to begin his work.

"Go, the monks are awaiting your arrival,"

She pulls roughly at the leather band holding her hair back, planting a kiss to her father's cheek before scurrying off. Grabbing her dark cloak, she runs to the back of their shop, snatching a carrot off from the market basket.

Brutus, their mule, had been saddled up and ready for their small journey to the monestary. She feeds him a carrot before gently pulling on the reigns, completely unaware of the threat that was to come.

Perhaps her father was right to worry, though he worried for all the wrong reasons.