Carry your heart on your sleeve

“The ‘advance’ is the basic forward movement. The front foot moves first. Begin by lifting the toes. Remember this, for it symbolizes the beginning of your relationship with your hand and sword.”

Beads of sweat dripped from Valcan Illtris’ pointed ears as he pounded his hammer again and again onto the beginnings of what would be a sword. He woke early that morning, before the sun began its ascent into the late spring sky, to forge. He gathered the iron which his fellow comrades mined earlier that spring and melted it. Once it was heated into a silvery soup, he poured the substance into a mold and let it cool. Valcan couldn’t let it harden too much, for the sword would not be strong or firm, and it could not be used to fight and gut enemies. He waited for several breaths to pass, then knocked the sword from its mold, placed it upon his pure black iron anvil, and proceeded to shape it into a sword worthy of the great Elf king. Which is what Valcan desired in a sword, for the sword that he was making would be his. His to weld. His to train with. And his to kill with.

Valcan has made several swords in his many centuries of life. He was an elf, and elves stopped aging once they reached their prime. The age where they’re useful and necessary to the Ancient Ones, the old gods of the elven country of Vicar. Valcan was born and raised in the capital city of Gravelow. A city with wonders built from hard stone, durable wood, and pure metal.

Valcan was born from humble beginnings. His father was a blacksmith, and his mother was a dressmaker. His parents both loved and believed in their trades. They both made honest money, but nowhere near enough to raise a large family, which was the standard in Gravelow. Because of this, Valcan had no brothers to play-fight with and no sisters to mess with. Valcan was a lonely child, but his parents made up for it by teaching him their trades. They instilled in him at a young age that he must be confident in his skills in both sword and needle. His father taught him that a man may go to war, but he must be knowledgeable enough to solve problems of the home as well. His mother taught him that while a man may appear tough, uncaring,and emotionless; a man is actually more admirable than he lets on. Men want to show emotion, but the stoic soldier facade is placed upon them. If a man lets go of that mask and lets his true side show,he will find a love so true. Valcan’s mother also said that a man must know a woman inside and out. “Kill her food but also mend her dresses while she tends to your children,” she would say.

For years, until he was the ripe age of eighteen, Valcan’s parents would teach him many lessons that would have a stronghold in his heart for centuries. In the early morning, his father would wake him up to train with a variety of swords. Whether it be a Rapier, a Broadsword, a Longsword, or a Shortsword; his father would train him in the art of every blade. “Fighting is more than harming or killing your partner,” his father would say,” you are creating a living thing with movement and metal. Fighting isn’t about killing, my son. It’s about showing the other side how valuable you are.” Valcan took his father’s lessons and truly brought them to life. While Valcan trained with many swords, he had a favorite: The Claymore. It was a timeless sword, one that knights use in battle and fighting competitions. He truly loved the Claymore because it made him feel secure. It made him feel powerful.

As Valcan hammered and heated his sword, his father’s lessons crept back to him. When Valcan was just over the age of five, his father sat him down and taught him the parts of a sword.

“My son, it’s high time you learned my trade.” Valcan’s father grunted as he knelt before him, his pointed ears appearing golden in the soft candlelight. Valcan’s eyes widened when his eyes found what his father was holding. His father, noticing his son’s eagerness and excitement, smiled and began to tell Valcan the story of a sword. “Fighting is more than an action. It is also about your weapon. This here,” his father pointed towards the bottom of the sword,” is the hilt. It is made up of the pommel, handle, and guard.” His father glanced at him, proud of the understanding he found in Valcan’s eyes. “This is the strongest part of the sword. You can fight without the tip of your sword, but you cannot fight without a hilt.” Valcan’s father sat with him for hours, teaching him the parts of the sword. All the way from the shoulder— where the blade meets the hilt— and the pointed edge; his father graced him with knowledge everlasting. Valcan’s love for sword fighting was born in that moment.

Valcan’s father was a good man who taught him many things. How to fight, how to live, and how to love. Valcan continued to hammer and heat and shape. The sound of his hammer hitting his premature sword turned into the clashing of blades and his father’s rough voice.

Valcan’s father stood before him, clad in his blacksmith attire: black leather boots worn from days’ work, black pants that once were a soulless deep now better resembled grey stone. And lastly, his shirt, once white now yellow from dirt, sweat, and blood. “Making a sword requires sacrifice; everything you are goes into the blade, my son. Everything.” Valcan looked at his father in wonder and nodded his head vigorously.

“Yes, Father. I understand. I will not fail you.” His father laughed, a deep-hearted sound that arose something familiar in Valcan’s young mind. His father’s laugh sounded like a dragon from the stories his mother told him. His mother would sit him down in her wide lap and rest his head against her bosom. She told him stories from long ago when brave men rode the dragons. His father would make ridiculous noises, and claim dragons sounded like men. His father was like a dragon, Valcan decided. His father was skillful and wise. Valcan’s father ruffled his hair. “My son, you can never fail me. Your very existence makes me proud to be alive. When you fight, you must not fail the gods. And most importantly, you must not fail yourself.”

Valcan heated and hammered his sword one last time before he started the final cooling process. He allowed his sword to cool for a couple of minutes before he wrapped it in insulating cloth to rest for a day or two. Valcan hated this part of the process. He loved doing, not waiting. In the meantime, Valcan went toward the front of his blacksmithing tent and sat down in an oak chair; the chair creaked in response to his muscular frame. The sounds of the city waking up and coming to life filtered through the tent’s small opening. Valcan grabbed a clean white cloth and silver polish and began polishing his fellow comrades swords. He was supposed to do this yesterday, but he was too busy planning out his next sword. His initial sketch was only supposed to take an hour to make, but three passed and Gravelow’s night-life died down. Polishing had to wait until the next morning. When inspiration struck, Valcan didn’t interrupt. He was not called the “Master of Blades” without reason. He got lost in his swords. It didn’t matter if he was making one or training with one, his brain carried him to memories of his father and he was instantly brought back to early morning lessons with his father. It was a solstice of happiness for him.

His father’s voice boomed across the courtyard as he yelled different defensive positions and attacks at Valcan for him to demonstrate. The misty autumn air blew in Valcan’s annoyed face. It was his sixteenth birthday and his father woke him early to practice with swords.

“En Garde!” his father yelled. The red and orange leaves of the nearby maple tree shook in response. As did Valcan, for he was not expecting his father’s voice to be so loud. But he did as his was told, and readied in his starting position. He moved his right leg in front of his body, with his toes pointed forward. He bent his knees slightly. He moved his left leg behind him, even with his shoulders, and pointed his toes towards the left. His legs and feet formed what should be an ‘L’ if he remembered his father’s lessons correctly.

“Advance! Parry!” Valcan moved his right foot, lifting his toes first. He extended his right arm— his dominant arm— and blocked an imaginary blow. On most days, it wouldn’t be imaginary. His father would be his opponent. But his father wanted to test his memory today. It’s one skill to live in the moment and fight with everything you have. But an excellent swordsman must remember moves and techniques when asked.

“Retreat! Lunge! Thrust!” His father paced the length of the courtyard as he yelled moves at Valcan. His voice was loud and full of pride. His voice was like a wise dragon demanding a debt to be paid. Valcan moved his left foot back, then his right foot. He lunged forward and thrusted—stabbing an imaginary enemy. Valcan heard clapping.

“Very good, my boy. Very good.” His father walked over from where he was standing by the maple trees and rubbed Valcan’s sweaty shoulders. “With those skills, you will make a fine swordsman. You have made me proud. May the gods bless your skill.”

Valcan polished sword after sword to perfection. He got so lost in his memories and his back-and-forth movements across the edges of blades, he almost didn’t hear the faint sound of rushed footsteps coming from the back of his tent. Valcan was used to people using his tent as a shortcut, especially on busy market days. But they usually announced their presence and stopped to catch up with him. Valcan was well-respected in the city of Gravelow, even the King’s family knew of him. So when he heard footsteps and no voice announcing their presence, Valcan knew something was amiss.

He set down the cloth and sword and stood up slowly, as not to alarm the intruder of his knowledge of them. He walked toward the flap leading to the back of his tent, forcing his steps to be quiet. Valcan was a large man, being quiet and unnoticeable was a rather challenging thing to accomplish. Valcan peeled the flap back and entered the forging area. His tools rested where he placed them moments before. His newest sword, wrapped in cloth, still lay on his work table. Valcan was about to walk away when he heard the rustling a second time. His eyes quickly scanned the area. He was about to do it once more when he heard the wood popping and a soft groan. Valcan found the source easily after that. The sound was coming from under his work table.

Valcan made his way to the table and then quickly moved the cloth hiding what was underneath. He found something he didn’t quite expect. He found a girl. A rather young girl. She looked like a child, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Her eyes held surprise when Valcan looked at her. She was shaking. Valcan moved to place the edge of the cloth on top of the table. His sudden movements scared the girl and she quickly got out from under the work table, reached behind her back, and grabbed a dagger. She pointed it at Valcan’s chest with a shaking hand.

Valcan raised his arms in part surrender and part defense. “I mean you no harm. I’m not going to hurt you,” Valcan said softly, with an undertone of concern. This did nothing to calm the young girl. “I want to know why you’re here, hiding beneath a table in my tent.” Valcan said while still holding his arms up. “It is quite suspicious.” Valcan tried to lighten the mood by offering a kind smile toward the young girl. It worked, partially. She offered a slight turn of her upper lip in return and lowered her dagger a little. Valcan was too busy looking at the girl that he didn’t notice her ornate dagger. It appeared to be pure silver. The metal glowed like liquid fire in the forge’s flames. A blue jewel rested in the center of the hilt. A beautiful but dangerous thing, just like this girl.

“That’s a beautiful blade you possess. May I ask where you got it?” Valcan lowered his hands and started walking slowly toward the girl. The girl backed one step and hit the work table behind her. Her pupils expanded in her hazel eyes and quickly darted around the room, looking for an escape if need be. Valcan felt horrid. He didn’t mean to corner the girl, but it did work to his advantage. He can get closer to her now and let her know no harm will come to her. Valcan continued making silent steps in her direction. He stopped when they were two steps in between them. Valcan extended his arm towards the girl’s blade. She flinched at first, but relaxed at his warm and comforting touch. Valcan grabbed the blade and examined it. “As I said before. This is a beautiful blade. It suits you; a beautiful blade for an equally beautiful girl.”

The girl offered a slight smile and dropped her tense shoulders. Valcan guessed she realized that no danger was to come to her. She looked Valcan in the eyes. Her eyes were like a hand that held Valcan captive. He couldn’t move under her gaze. It felt as if something powerful was holding him in place. This girl may look harmless, Valcan thought, but underneath her innocent facade, something lurked. Valcan couldn’t name it, but nonetheless, he was intrigued. He decided then that he would help this girl, no matter what her needs may be.

The girl swallowed and took three deep breaths. She extended her arms out and wrapped her dark green cloak tightly around her body. Her movements caused her hair to move, revealing her pointed ears. She was an elf like him, Valcan realized. Her voice was rough, like she hadn’t used it in a while, when she said, “My name is Inaleth Norvaris, and I need your help.”