The Smith
There was a humming in the tavern, and the humming was quite different from the roar and rumble of the train that Blue had been accustomed to- not that he disliked it, but the presence of ponies other than Tarnish (who had been nothing but a source of annoyance to him) was a welcome thing. Definitely a fortunate change. He contemplated another mug of cider at the bar, the gentle hum of conversation flowing around him. At least Tarnish had opted to stay outside; he was probably imagining another harebrained way to waste Blue’s time when the train got going. But for now, Blue would sit and enjoy the change of atmosphere as the general low murmur lulled him into thought.
The tavern didn’t appear to be located in the most populated of places, but it had an unusual amount of revelers for it being a waypoint on a rail-line. The geography consisted of hills and fog for the most part, one mountain stretching nearly vertically up beyond the sight of those constrained by the ground. He had noticed some of the other buildings at the stop, but only in the most cursory sense of the word. His only care when he had jumped off the train had been to get away for a while, and so far getting away had consisted of drowning himself in a few lonely pints. He was fine with that.
Behind him, revelers passed around and talked in loud voices and quiet murmurs, not caring who heard them. With the stopping of the train their number had nearly doubled, but curiously the tavern was not close to full- it had an unusually large capacity for such a remote location. He was fine with that, too- as long as he had some time to collect himself amidst his long travels. He didn’t pay especially close attention to the doors slamming open and slowly closing. He did not care that the tavern’s collective attention was seized, nor did he spare a glance to the pegasus mare in uniform that had stormed inside and forcibly taken residence of a table at the corner. Intentionally or not she had displaced a small party with her angry self-directed glance; He did not notice Tarnish come in some moments later with an observant eye on the thunderous newcomer.
“I know you have a lack of respect for decency, but you could have at least tried to get some of that coal dust out of your coat before you appeared in public.”
“I’d rather be dirty than named after rust.”
Tarnish took a stool next to Blue’s, his chromatic silver coat nearly shining compared to the dark-black coal-stained mess that, if looked at with a squint, might appear to be solid black. Tarnish dislodged his hat from his horn, his short mane rarely seen now apparent. He was infinitely more comfortable than Blue with the atmosphere, despite Blue’s tiredness. Tarnish called over the bartender and ordered some wine and resolutely did not look at Blue while he turned his glass this way and that, observing the way the light played through the acrid swift liquid.
“Why are you in here, Tarn?” Blue asked, grumbling-sighing to himself- he knew he was taking the bait.
“I take it you noticed the general disturbance earlier, and the mare at the epicenter of it?”
“Not especially.” Blue drained the last of his current pint.
“Don’t you have the least interest in her predicament? The least curiosity?”
“Nope.” He grabbed another pint.
“A shame. Some of us like to bother with the important things in life.”
Blue nearly dropped his pint, and turned to send an incredulous look Tarnish’s way. This was, after all, the same “engineer” whose first self-imposed task had been to invent a spell to keep the coal dust and smoke from fouling his coat. By his reckoning, Tarnish’s order of importance was that of a somewhat snobby, civilized “intellectual”- that’s not to say that Blue didn’t enjoy his thinking, but he had a rather different definition of intellectual than the one Tarnish would postulate. He also had doubts about the authenticity of the reasons Tarnish had given for working on a train, too, but he wasn’t about to pry. He had enough to mull over.
“I have heard things about her, interesting things, but what I saw was more interesting.” Tarnish continued, leaning back on his stool against the bar and giving a lazy gesture after sipping his wine.
“I saw her fall from the firmament… like lightning.”
“What?”
“Caelum. Firmament. Sky. Heavens. Whatever you prefer. And she was falling from it.” He leaned back a little more, staring into the rafters for a moment as if he could see her fall again. “It was a magnificent descent… with the clouds rumbling, star-tides breaking, flaring like a comet… beautiful and terrible…”
“Are you here to drink or compose poetry?” Blue was at the end of Tarnish’s attention, barely in his view, but still Tarnish turned to him.
“What do you think of her?” Tarnish repeated. “Why did she fall?”
“Ah don’t know.” Blue grumbled, grabbing another ale. “Why should I bother judging her?”
“Because you are left in a bar for a few hours with nothing else to do, and you are nearing the bottom of your fifth mug.” Tarnish replied, waiting expectantly. Blue sighed and swiveled around, deciding in the end he had nothing better to do- and perhaps he could work out some of Tarnish’s cursed persnicketyness in the meantime. It would ease the journey afterwards- maybe. His life had had a way of defying expectations, and usually not in a pleasant way.
“Is that her?” Blue asked, motioning over to the unaware mare in the corner that happened to be in a noticeably sour mood. Her disposition was centered on the median of the rounded table, an anger slicing with daggers at something only she could see. There was weariness behind it- a disappointedness- but whether it was sadness or regret or deeper buried hatred was unidentifiable. Nevertheless she had repulsed all others and had achieved what had to have been her desire, a sulking solitude of smoldering introspection.
“Indeed it is. I heard from a wandering pegasus that she had a friend, once, and she did something terrible to their mutual detriment.”
It tugged at the memory of the mind, something then and now coming together...
“This reminds me of a story.” Blue shifted, drawn reluctantly out. “But if I tell it, you hafta listen and shut up for a while I’m telling it, else I can’t tell it.”
“Alright; sounds fine.”
“This is an old Appleloosan folk tale…” He shifted into his final position against the bar, holding a mug out of comfort or habit, not noticing the hint of derision that Tarnish displayed at the mention of Appleloosa.
“Way up in the mountains, deep in the rolling hills and chas’mous valleys and the snowy mountaintops, there was a smithy and a smith who lived in it. He was well-renowned for his craft, and a fine job he did with it, and he had a wife and a colt and a filly and he was happy. His colt was a coal miner, and while the smith lived on the height of the freezing mountain, he descended into the great black depths of those mountains in search of the coal and fine metals that would that feed the fire and feed the craft for his father. One day, buried deeper than the roots of the mountain, lower than the sea, he found a great wondrous chunk of metal that shone like the evening stars and the moon and the sun put together. For days he dragged it up out of the murky depths, up the snowy mountain slopes, to the top of the world’s pinnacle- that was what they called the forge, so high it was- until at last he had drug it before his father, and nearly died of exhaustion. His father was overjoyed at the sight of the star-metal, for they had no other name for it, and once his son had recovered the father promised the son that the first thing he would forge out of the metal would be an unbreakable pick that would ease the son’s adventures infinitely. So the son returned below the roots of the mountains with the promise of an easier existence in his heart, and found his burdens lighter because of it.”
“And the smith returned to his forge, and prepared his tools to make war on the star-iron. He knew it would be a vast challenge, the greatest he had ever faced, for in his first bout with it he could neither bend nor chip nor scar the metal no matter the intensity of the fire he turned on it. For days he stayed at the forge, not minding the burns or the hunger that rose from the flesh nor its cries of agony demanding sleep. He fought only with the star-iron, and he relegated all other matters of this world to let themselves be… No matter the consequences.”
“And the day came that his wife came to him, and begged him to stop, if not for his own good but for hers, for she had grown weaker. He ignored her with a heart harder than the metal he vainly raged against, and when she touched him he railed and cursed blindly against the distraction he would not see, and she, seeing the futility of his state and the impossibility of his work, resigned herself to a love denied and left him atop the mountain to whirl and hammer at the metal until the day he passed into Elysian fields.”
“And the day came that his daughter came to him, and she was no longer a filly but a blossoming mare, great in grace and beauty. She had before left the mountain, but she had returned to visit and seek his blessing to be married, and when she arrived she found him at his forge, as she expected. She came up to him, asked him graciously, was surprised and fearful of his lack of answer, and waited patiently for his response. For a day and night’s circumference she waited- rephrasing questions nicer and more pleading all the while- until in desperation she moved between her father the smith in his work, and he threw her aside with a growl. She, too, left the mountain, and she was not heard from again.”
“And then his son came again from the depths of the tunnels below the mountains…”
He ground his teeth, jaw locked shut, intensely staring at the unaware mare. His speech was low and growling.
“And he came up to his father, confused, looking everywhere, and asked ‘Father, where is my sister?’”
“He didn’t reply.”
“And then the son looked around and asked, ‘Father, where is my mother?’”
“He didn’t say a word.”
“He didn’t even notice his son walking up to him; the son was amazed and terrified by the fury at which he whirling-hammered at the metal, with great laborious strokes crashing down on it, his coat singed and burnt, and at last his father dropped out of sheer exhaustion, and his hammer slipped out of his grasp, and his son moved to pick it up for him, but his father leaped up to block and for the first moment the father looked away from the damned star-iron…”
“And in his eyes there was such hate as the son had never seen, had never thought possible, and the father screamed: ‘I will forge this metal for you, even if it slays me in the process!’ He seized his hammer out of the sons shocked hand, wrenched it away, and swung with abandon at the eternal metal. The son stayed for a while, hopeful that the metal would have mercy on the father, but there could be no such thing. In time, the son too left in despair, and wandered away into other lands, but the father remained.”
“And some say you can still hear him screaming and striking at night up on the world’s pinnacle, breaking himself against the metal that could not; following his passions into the darkest places out of corrupted love for his craft and son."
“She is the father, I see…”
He stopped, intense gaze scrutinizing her.
“I can see it in her eyes.”