Week 9 - Edgelord
Sep. 13th, 2025 12:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marjoricaI.
There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it. He has an idea of how to make that happen, an instinct, a gift given by the gods.
Sweat drips from his forehead and he wipes it away before it reaches his eyes. Long smuts of black streak the top of his face, wings of mingled carbon and perspiration, extending from temple to temple.
He hammers out the plates of carbon steel until, melded together, they form a long, thin oblong. Then he clips the shape into more plates and lets them cool from molten orange to sober grey.
Shuffling the new plates like cards he thrusts them once more into the forge and hammers them back together again. New melds. New bonds. New spaces in between wherein lie the power, the magic that will make the blade sing when it is done. Layer after layer that hold the secret, will flex when needed, will take a blow, can be sharpened enough to cut a strand of wool floated down the stream outside.
He heard tell of a blade made this way that cut through the anvil like it was butter. He is not there yet and may never be. That is surely the stuff of legend, but his own master once saw it done, or so he said .
His master had the soul of a poet. He knows that he would settle for the soul of a smith.
***
II.
It is said that the dragon Fafnir once threatened the land. He had once been a man, but had stolen treasure given by the gods to a man whose sons they had accidentally killed. That was so like the gods to think that gold and jewels could be recompense for lives lost.
Gold and jewels did not put breath back into broken bodies. They could not capture the essence of a childhood full of paternal hopes nor yet the turning of manly potential into phantoms. Who might they have gone on to love? What deeds might they have accomplished?
No good could come of any of it and Fafnir had turned into a mighty worm. He spent his nights and days coiled around his stolen hoard, coming away only to devour the herds and children of the villagers around him.
Many was the hero whose life he had ended when they came to face him. More death and destruction. It took one knight with one very special sword to slay him. Layers upon layers of steel penetrated the dragon’s chest, plunging between the ribs and into his heart. The knight’s arm went into the wound up to the shoulder and came out stained with clots of black red ichor.
The blood gouted and pooled beneath Fafnir, trickling its way between diadems and sceptres. Rubies dulled under the redness and it stuck between the links of golden chains. Gods’ gifts befouled by a dragon’s blood.
Fafnir wept acid tears of gratitude that his burden was to be taken by another poor fool at last.
***
III.
He had been blessed with the soul of a poet. This did him little good in the world he had been born into, squalling even before he had left his mother’s body. In another time or place perhaps he would have done well. Or else, perhaps, he would always have been destined for pain and torment.
You couldn’t be weak in this life, or rather you couldn’t be seen to be weak. High rises crowded out the sky, layering their inhabitants like battery hens. They looked like stacks of plates of steel that had been left to rust. Stunted trees clung on to life somehow in this environment. They had been intended to add some greenery to the place, some natural beauty, but that was asking too much.
Planes roared like dragons overhead, flying off to places he would never go. He used to watch them when he was little, but now they just were. Everything just was.
He spent a lot of his time outside the chicken shop that was on their side of the street. From time to time one of them would go in and buy some actual chicken, adding to the piles of bones that lay outside like it was some creature’s lair. His friend usually had the money to buy something, his friend who wore the golden chain. Mostly they stood there and glared at anyone else who might be thinking of coming onto their turf.
When he left the world he had been born into, it had all happened so quickly. It was so prosaic. No mighty blade between the ribs piercing the heart. Just an everyday kitchen knife accomplishing the same task. We are so fragile that we do not need dragons to eat us up after all. His life ebbed away as his blood pooled in the cracks of the paving slabs.
There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it. He just never had the chance to learn.
***
Vote here by Tuesday 16th September https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1200039.html
There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it. He has an idea of how to make that happen, an instinct, a gift given by the gods.
Sweat drips from his forehead and he wipes it away before it reaches his eyes. Long smuts of black streak the top of his face, wings of mingled carbon and perspiration, extending from temple to temple.
He hammers out the plates of carbon steel until, melded together, they form a long, thin oblong. Then he clips the shape into more plates and lets them cool from molten orange to sober grey.
Shuffling the new plates like cards he thrusts them once more into the forge and hammers them back together again. New melds. New bonds. New spaces in between wherein lie the power, the magic that will make the blade sing when it is done. Layer after layer that hold the secret, will flex when needed, will take a blow, can be sharpened enough to cut a strand of wool floated down the stream outside.
He heard tell of a blade made this way that cut through the anvil like it was butter. He is not there yet and may never be. That is surely the stuff of legend, but his own master once saw it done, or so he said .
His master had the soul of a poet. He knows that he would settle for the soul of a smith.
***
II.
It is said that the dragon Fafnir once threatened the land. He had once been a man, but had stolen treasure given by the gods to a man whose sons they had accidentally killed. That was so like the gods to think that gold and jewels could be recompense for lives lost.
Gold and jewels did not put breath back into broken bodies. They could not capture the essence of a childhood full of paternal hopes nor yet the turning of manly potential into phantoms. Who might they have gone on to love? What deeds might they have accomplished?
No good could come of any of it and Fafnir had turned into a mighty worm. He spent his nights and days coiled around his stolen hoard, coming away only to devour the herds and children of the villagers around him.
Many was the hero whose life he had ended when they came to face him. More death and destruction. It took one knight with one very special sword to slay him. Layers upon layers of steel penetrated the dragon’s chest, plunging between the ribs and into his heart. The knight’s arm went into the wound up to the shoulder and came out stained with clots of black red ichor.
The blood gouted and pooled beneath Fafnir, trickling its way between diadems and sceptres. Rubies dulled under the redness and it stuck between the links of golden chains. Gods’ gifts befouled by a dragon’s blood.
Fafnir wept acid tears of gratitude that his burden was to be taken by another poor fool at last.
***
III.
He had been blessed with the soul of a poet. This did him little good in the world he had been born into, squalling even before he had left his mother’s body. In another time or place perhaps he would have done well. Or else, perhaps, he would always have been destined for pain and torment.
You couldn’t be weak in this life, or rather you couldn’t be seen to be weak. High rises crowded out the sky, layering their inhabitants like battery hens. They looked like stacks of plates of steel that had been left to rust. Stunted trees clung on to life somehow in this environment. They had been intended to add some greenery to the place, some natural beauty, but that was asking too much.
Planes roared like dragons overhead, flying off to places he would never go. He used to watch them when he was little, but now they just were. Everything just was.
He spent a lot of his time outside the chicken shop that was on their side of the street. From time to time one of them would go in and buy some actual chicken, adding to the piles of bones that lay outside like it was some creature’s lair. His friend usually had the money to buy something, his friend who wore the golden chain. Mostly they stood there and glared at anyone else who might be thinking of coming onto their turf.
When he left the world he had been born into, it had all happened so quickly. It was so prosaic. No mighty blade between the ribs piercing the heart. Just an everyday kitchen knife accomplishing the same task. We are so fragile that we do not need dragons to eat us up after all. His life ebbed away as his blood pooled in the cracks of the paving slabs.
There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it. He just never had the chance to learn.
***
Vote here by Tuesday 16th September https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1200039.html
no subject
Date: 2025-09-12 12:58 pm (UTC)I liked this line:
His master had the soul of a poet. He knows that he would settle for the soul of a smith.
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-09-12 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-14 11:13 pm (UTC)We are so fragile that we do not need dragons to eat us up after all.
For all of the grandeur of myths, sometimes death comes via simple anger or betrayal.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-14 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 04:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 09:14 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 09:16 pm (UTC)I am quite expecting to go out this week, but I am happier with my stuff than I thought I might be.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-16 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-16 09:08 pm (UTC)I really like the repetition of this line. It brings the narrative back full circle and though all three lives seem entirely different, you show us how similar they actually are... if you look between the spaces.
Wonderful piece.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-17 01:47 am (UTC)