//------------------------------// // Chapter 5: Reforging // Story: Prologues // by Broken Phalanx //------------------------------// Selim knew most of the steps required, but the process as a whole remained elusively out of reach; what he did know, however, only intensified his surprise and appreciation, both of which were clearly written across his face. Still, however, there remained statements that needed to be said. “Uruk, I’m lost for words. Thank you.” The only response from Uruk was a nod and a nearly imperceptible smile. A few seconds passed before Bilgames coughed, and Uruk motioned for Selim to actually put the gauntlet on. “Ah, uh, yes, one second,” Selim muttered uncertainly, before looking quizzically at the metal glove; there were straps, he knew, that were intended to tighten the thing to his arm, but even a cursory glance indicated that, indeed, he was going to have difficulty putting on or pulling off this damnable, albeit beautiful, bit of armor. Carefully, he placed both the glove as well as his hand upon the table they were all standing beside, before slowly unhooking and untying every part that could be loosened. He placed his hand into the gauntlet like one would a normal glove. Then, gracelessly, he fumblingly tried to re-hook and re-tighten the gauntlet back into its former glory; Uruk and Bilgames, an armorer and a warrior-king respectively, looked vaguely amused by the entire situation as Selim struggled to place the armor on, before, finally, Uruk took pity on the youngest brother and assisted wordlessly. A few more clumsy minutes passed, during which Bilgames excused himself, his shoulders shaking from contained laughter; Selim botched every step imaginable in putting on a gauntlet, as well as a few mistakes that would be inconceivable to a person with a sane mind; and Uruk momentarily considered clubbing his youngest brother over the head, if only to simplify the entire process. But eventually, the final hook was placed, and Uruk and Selim simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief as a laborious process was finally concluded. “Jeez, that was difficult, eh? Thank you, again, for helping me, Uruk.” Uruk glanced at Selim; quite a lot can be said with a look, and this one could only be interpreted as saying ‘One of us made this entire process difficult, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. But you’re welcome, brother.’ And with that, Uruk walked to the door and rapped it sharply, and Bilgames reentered, looking far more composed then he had when he had left. “So. . . I see you two managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. For a while, I thought it was to be the opposite,” Bilgames said, smirking slightly at his two younger brothers. “It wasn’t that hard!” Selim protested, bristling with indignation. Both brothers glanced at Uruk, looking for support in their argument; Uruk glanced at the both of them before casually shrugging. It’s like they’re children, Uruk thought as Selim and Bilgames got into yet another petty argument. It’d be nice if they could be quiet. He wandered over to the window, leaned against the sill, and stared at clouds, letting the squabble turn into background noise behind him. I wonder if there is going to be some decent food today. I hope whoever’s cooking doesn’t try to sneak peppers into it like last time. Wait. I almost forgot. . . Selim was in the midst of gesticulating angrily when Uruk was suddenly there, grasping Selim’s left arm and turning the gauntlet so all three of them could see what was about to be done. Uruk, with an expression of boredom never leaving his face, casually pressed against the middle knuckle of the armor before jerking his hand away with considerably more haste than the other two brother’s would’ve thought characteristic for him. As silent as a whisper from death, a blade sprang out of the gauntlet. Selim and Bilgames looked first at the armor turned punching-dagger, then at Uruk’s blank look of innocence, then back at the knife; all three of them simply stared at the honed blade, now making a shaky figure eights, for a few moments. Bilgames cleared his unaccountably dry throat for a moment, before saying, “You’re taking an interest in becoming a criminal mastermind, Uruk?” He was very clearly trying to eradicate the last few minutes of bickering from his mind, if the pallor in his face was any indication; Selim had, more than once in the last few seconds before the demonstration, tried to punch him. Uruk shrugged in response. “Erm, well then. Uh. . .” Bilgames said, floundering for a moment; he thought himself rarely flustered, but Uruk was, more often than not, something of an anomaly. The man would rarely bother showing up for functions, and when he did, it’d typically be with something that’d eventually either spew fireworks everywhere or do something utterly nonsensical, like the trumpet that’d make notes like a piano. . . “Food’d be nice,” Uruk rumbled, speaking for the first time that day. “That sounds fantastic,” Bilgames muttered. Uruk and Bilgames glanced at Selim to get his opinion. They stared for a bit longer. “You think we should leave him a note?” Bilgames said uncertainly. “He hasn’t moved in the last few minutes.” Not that I blame him. Damned thing was pretty close to his face more than once. Mine too, for that matter. Uruk shrugged again; Selim’s eyes swiveled towards this movement, and if the slight twitchiness of his eyes were any indication, he had quite a lot to say, and had to work himself up to actually spit it out. Eventually, with deceptive calm and a grin that would’ve looked more at home on a serial killer’s face, Selim said “What. If I. Had decided. To rest. My cheek. Against. My. Knuckles?” It was not an exaggeration to say he was actually shuddering from contained rage. Uruk replied, with an impressive lack of emotion, “It’d have made you more handsome, for one.” Selim and Bilgames stared at Uruk for a moment, the last of whom, after scratching his nose, added, “What? T’was a joke. Didn’t happen, so ‘tis not a problem to worry about.” And so began yet another Royal argument. *** Home was a mixed bag; there was the family, yes, and knowing they would almost always have one’s best interests at heart made most burdens easier to bear, but at the same time one would have to endure their pity, and that in it of itself could make even the lightest of afflictions become almost intolerable. Such was the situation when Mercy arrived, slightly bedraggled, at her sister’s house. Honestly, the look on her sister’s face had been worse than the stay at the hospital. “Mercy! Oh my goodness! I didn’t know you were going to arrive today,” Ginger said quickly, clearly embarrassed to have been caught off guard. Her gaze latched onto the false-leg and stayed there; tact had never been the yellowish pony’s forte, and it showed. “Nothing to worry about,” Mercy said, smiling wanly. If she doesn’t stop looking at my leg in the next few seconds, I’m going to smack her. A minute passed in dead silence, both of them still standing at the doorway. Yup, any minute now. . . “So, how about we talk more when I get inside?” Mercy said, hinting quite sharply that this staring, if Ginger knew what was good for her, shouldn’t become a habit. “Huh? Uh, yes, right, that’s a good idea. . .” Ginger said, her gaze only slowly peeling away from the wooden replacement. She glanced up at Mercy’s face, put on an unconvincing smile, and stepped to the side. “Thank you,” Mercy muttered, as she trotted inside. The smell hit Mercy like a wall of glass; wherever the source was, it was overpowering. It hinted at everything made of ginger, from ginger ale to gingerbread cookies, and in this quantity it actually made her slightly nauseous. “So, uh, how are you doing?” Ginger said, in a tone befitting of her name. ‘As well as can be expected’, Mercy wanted to reply, even if it would’ve sounded half-hearted. Instead, however, she said “How the Tartarus do you expect? My hoof’s gone, along with the leg it was attached to; you just don’t walk that sort of thing off.” Mercy stopped for a moment, her brain catching up to her mouth. Then, significantly more thoughtfully than before, she added, “Actually, it’s really not something anypony can walk off, if we’re going to be literal here.” “Uh, yeah, sure. You want something to eat or something?” Ginger said quickly, her reply’s swiftness betraying her desire to stifle this line of thought in the bud before Mercy could actually pick up enough steam to discuss this for hours on end. Mercy stared at Ginger for a moment, before, again, the house’s ambient smell struck her; it was enough to make small tears form in the corners of Mercy’s eyes, and if the growing unease in the pit of her stomach was anything akin to a botanically induced augury, she suspected that, yes, ginger would somehow find itself in any dinner made within her sister’s house. Mercy’s mind, along with her taste-buds, revolted. “How about we get something from the shop? It’s still around, right?” Mercy asked. Of course, she already knew the answer to the latter question; she had checked the moment she entered town to make certain there was an escape option as far as eating was concerned. “Uh, yeah, I think so. But I don’t know if it’d still be open at this ti-” “How about we check, at least? I mean, it’s not right for you to have to cook, considering I dropped in somewhat, er, unexpectedly,” Mercy said, having memorized the closing times of Mollitrot just before arriving at her sister’s house. “But I’ve already got something cooking in the oven-” “Then it’s a shame I didn’t tell you earlier I was coming in,” Mercy said, rallying magnificently. “I don’t want to impose, and you probably didn’t make enough for tw-” “Mercy,” Ginger said, clearly feeling hurt. “If you don’t want to eat what I’ve cooked, just say so.” Well, no, I don’t really want to eat anything made out of ginger; I mean, I suppose it doesn’t taste too bad in small doses, but you insist in shoving the stuff into every meal you can, particularly in foods that don’t fit it. Do you remember that time you tried to flavor potatoes with that blasted plant? And that’s not even the worst! Remember that one fiasco with the town’s water supply? Of course you don’t, Mercy thought, with increasing anger. But it was a defeated angry; Mercy already knew what she would say, even as her taste-buds wanted to strangle her. “No no no, not at all! Your food is delicious; I just thought it would be rude if I just barged and started eating your stuff. Plus, well, I thought you enjoyed that place, considering that you sent a letter last time talking about how there was a new cook you liked. . .” There, an acceptable mixture of white-lies and the truth; it was a skill Mercy had become quite proficient in, from months of trying to gently break bad news to the families of injured recruits. Of course, you could just come out and tell her that you hate having ginger in every dish, but that’d be too simple, wouldn’t it? No, can’t be assertive, might hurt someponies feelings. You wimp. It’s just a dratted plant; you seriously think your sister can’t take a bit of critique? She may be called Ginger, but that doesn’t mean you need to treat her gingerly. Fate already determined, Mercy neatly set her saddlebag down in a corner of the room, with exaggerated care derived from not wanting to break something; she didn’t want to damage any of the notes she had. Ginger smiled for a moment, evidently unaware of Mercy’s inner turmoil, and replied, “Well, fortunately, most of the time I have enough left-overs for two meals, so that’s not a problem; then, tomorrow, maybe you can meet some of my new friends, and I can show you around town. You wouldn’t believe it, but Crack Pot actually purchased a house. . .” Mercy simply nodded, her face, though somewhat blank, carefully made to look interested and a half smile that made her appear as if delighted at this outcome. It was only while she was eating that a vein, pulsing in her eye, could’ve betrayed how she truly felt about the situation, but at that point she had taken to bolting down the food (some sort of stew, which, to Mercy’s utter lack of surprise, likely had copious amounts of ginger) so she didn’t have to savor its pungent taste. *** Rations, whatever the recruits might say to the contrary, didn’t taste particularly terrible; perhaps, to those who had so recently been spoiled by home cooking, that may be the case, but to a soldier with Whiskey’s years they simply tasted bland. Except the dried mushrooms. Those never tasted good, and Whiskey was beginning to think that whoever decided they should be sent to the troops was, in a very subtle manner, committing treason. He very carefully scrapped the fungal flakes into a square shape, then, using a dribble of water, compacted and crushed the mushroom flecks into something resembling a curved rhombus. A slightly bluish aura surrounded the shape, and steam gradually rose from it; about a minute later, almost in synchrony with him turning the page of the book he was reading, Whiskey absentmindedly picked up the newly hardened block and carefully placed it into a pile of similarly colored tiles. There were quite a number of them. His hoof, almost as if on its own accord, slowly traveled downwards, towards the bottom drawer of his desk; he got as far as touching the handle before his conscious mind noticed. He grimaced momentarily, before relinquishing the metal clutch. Whiskey, seemingly drained from this simple action, slowly rearranged the tiles before him into small groups: the shapes formed, reminiscent of houses with flat roofs, were soothing to him, though he’d be hard pressed to explain why, exactly. He continued to read. His ears twitched, and before the pony on the other side of the door could even knock, the door swung open. “Salutations,” Whiskey said, before clearing his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Remedy stood by the doorway, her expression making clear she was not amused. “Who told you you could leave the sickbay? Because it sure as Tartarus wasn’t me.” “Well, I suppose the answer to the question is. . .” Initially quite self-righteous, Whiskey’s speech slowly petered down in volume before eventually silencing when the Unicorn realized that getting sassy with the only pony with both medicine (IE, sleeping agents) and an inability to comprehend proportionate retribution (IE, a sterilized pin with plenty of tattoo ink) was, just perhaps, unwise. Many a recruit had woken after making enemies with Remedy, most of them surprised by how, after a short nap, new messages and unpleasant symbols had mysteriously become permanently affixed to them. “You were saying?” Remedy asked quite cheerfully. “. . .sorry,” Whiskey mumbled. “I didn’t feel ill after that whole . . . ordeal, and I thought that I might get something done. . .” “It’s pretty common,” Remedy said, sitting down on a spare chair, “for most ponies to be perfectly healthy after petrification; I don’t know all the little details myself, but apparently the whole ‘being stone’ bit does something to starve the disease.” “Then why’d you get upset I was working?” “We all have our jobs, Whiskey.” Remedy glanced at the pile of tiles for a moment, before continuing. “You were in danger of dying for the longest time; did you really think you could just go back to working without at least a checkup?” Then, laughing, she concluded “Besides, your expression a few seconds ago was priceless; seriously, it deserved to be immortalized.” “Is that it?” was the grumbled reply. Remedy stared at Whiskey, before saying, “No. You should eat with us more often; until they send us a replacement, it’s just us three. It’d do Staunch some good to chat with you.” “I’ve got work to do.” “That’s a lie and don’t even pretend it was a good one.” “I didn’t lie.” Remedy shot an inquisitive glance at Whiskey, replying, “We haven’t been sent anything from higher up. How . . .?” “Just because it’s work doesn’t mean it’s part of the job.” They sat together in silence for a few seconds, before Remedy said, “So, you going to tell me or what?” Whiskey sat, his face turned towards the window, clearly torn. By the Alicorns, I can tell them; I mean, they may think I’m a bit of a nutter, trying to summon old fairy tales, but they wouldn’t actively attack my idea, would they? They’re friends after all. . . He realized the fallacy in this theory almost immediately after thinking it. They’re my friends; of course they’d try to stop me from doing so idiotically stupid. If Mercy wasn’t a bit. . . off right now, she’d have probably already tried to contact them. Even if they didn’t think I’d gone mad, even if they wanted to help, even best case scenario, they could get hurt. . . “It’s personal,” Whiskey said, his face carefully blank of all expression. It took him a moment, however, as Remedy glanced at the spell-book he had been reading, to realize that had been error in it of itself. “Clearly,” Remedy said, in a tone that really said, ‘We’re going to have words about this, because I know for a damn fact you’re lying. Hope you enjoy being watched, because we both know this is how it’s probably going to end. Should’ve just told me the truth when you had the chance, you dope’. “Sorry.” “Yeah, I know you are.” Remedy got up from the seat, trotted to the door, and at the last moment paused, looked back at Whiskey and said, “You know we’re your friends, right? And that you can tell us anything.” “Yes, I know. I’ll talk to Staunch later; thank you for the chat, but I really must get back to work . . .” *** ‘Tis passive-aggressive, Uruk thought as he stared forlornly at his plate; it was absolutely stacked with bell-peppers. He spared a glance at both Selim’s and Bilgames’ plates: fish and rice, the both of them. I wonder if I could steal some of their food without them noticing? “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Selim said, glancing at Uruk, “How are the weapons coming along? I mean, not just the weapons, but the metal and stuff as well?” Uruk shrugged in reply; Why do they always ask me questions like this? Blades come along when they want to; you can’t rush a fine edge any more than you can hurry a harvest. And again with ores; I’m not a miner, how should I know? “We’re estimating roughly another week for the next shipment based upon last month’s delays; you know as well as I do, Selim, that we’ve resorted to jury-rigging gems as spearheads.” Uruk let the conversation drone on in the background, carefully transferring chunks of fish from their plates, sneaking the food to his own dish with remarkable sleight of hand. Wonder if they used. . .yes, yes, they did. Damn, this is delicious. Why the hell’d they stuff the fish with quail, though? Why not just have it be a separate dish? Oh, this goes well with vinegar. Are they really still talking? Yes. They still haven’t even glanced at their plates. Shame. Well, no sense letting good food go to waste. . . Some time passed, and logistics talk became scarcer and more interspersed with small-talk until, finally, Bilgames leaned his elbows against the table and said, with little warning, “I’m thinking about having you visit the military hospitals. You know, keep morale up and what not.” Selim’s face blanched for a moment. “You’re not serious, are you?” “Deadly so.” “You’ve gone mad, utterly, utterly mad. I know where this is going; you’re going to spin this like ‘look at Selim, he’s got a non-functioning hand, but he still contributes!’ Bilgames, brother, that’s sick.” “But is it false?” The utensils rattled when Selim slammed his working hand onto the table. “The spirit of it is! We’re not inspirationally disadvantaged, brother; we specifically avoid what our disabilities make difficult! Uruk here isn’t a scout, I, well, I don’t think I have a future in metal crafting, and you don’t donate organs! It’s a carefully maintained ecosystem of avoiding shit we’re bad at! And you think we have something to show off?!” Gods, they enjoy arguing, Uruk thought. Tis only a matter of time before someone says something they regret, though, and like every other time, they’re just going to leave each other in a huff. Tis method acting, it is; thinking they dislike each other so much that they convince themselves of it. Idiots. “Then perhaps that should change; I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation, and it’s not right for us to simply take the easy way around our. . .problems. Perhaps it might brighten up some poor lad’s day if you had a chat with him? We’re the face of humanity, for all intents and purposes; we’re honor-bound to show our resilience to woes, Selim.” Selim gripped his forehead and murmured, bitterly, “Did you really only lose a kidney? Or were the men mistaken? Was that shriveled lump of flesh your heart?” There was silence for a moment, as Bilgames’ face darkened and Selim realized he had spoken aloud. Only the sound of Uruk’s chewing persisted, and even that was nearly imperceptible when the blacksmith mentally re-wound the conversation he’d only been half listening to and realized what had just been said. Yes, more predictable than sparks from a forge. If others were privy to this nonsense, I could make a small fortune on tickets alone. Dramatic sods; next time I think I’ll just bludgeon them both to sleep the next time they interrupt dinner. I say, this trout is delicious with this spice. Ginger? Huh. . . “Selim,” Bilgames said, his countenance paling from sheer rage. “Lord?” Selim said, hesitantly; there were some lines that should not be crossed, and it was clear Selim knew, in his heart, he hadn’t just leapt beyond what was acceptable: no, he had, for all intents and purposes, sauntered over the line, before casually setting it ablaze and urinating on its burning remains. So, in perhaps the wisest choice of the day, he defaulted to being as respectful as possible. “You’re going to meet the fucking wounded.” “Yes, sire.” “More fish?” asked Uruk. The tension snapped for a moment, and Selim and Bilgames glanced at Uruk in utter bewilderment. “I enjoy eating more than bickering.” *** Thank you for the meal. No, I quite sure I’m full. No, I’m quite certain I don’t want seconds. Look, I’m going to go visit around the town, nostalgia, you know, that sort of thing. Believe it or not, having three legs doesn’t automatically make me defenseless. Look, I’m quite certain I don’t need an escort. . . Would you kindly stop? Yes, yes, I’ll be back by sundown. No, I don’t think I’ll be back in time to meet your friend tonight. Yes, I love you to. But I really hate your cooking. Mercy shook her head, before continuing her walk: it was always the same thing whenever she visited, and every discussion and thought played out in a similar manner every single time. The one major advantage, she had to admit to herself, was that trotting had proven significantly more simple without the saddlebag throwing her weight to one side, so going home had been a small blessing in that respect. This, however, is unlikely to be simple, Mercy thought as she gazed at the raggedy-house-turned-fortress; Crack Pot, kindly though she could be when she was certain one wasn’t an evil insect-like alien only wearing the skin of a pony, was difficult to approach on the best of days. If only, Mercy thought as she carefully stepped over a small crater in the road leading up to the house, that were purely in the social sense. There really was no proper way to do this, unfortunately; back when Crack Pot had been, for lack of better words, a socially accepted beggar, it had been simple enough to get her attention without potentially getting blasted in the face by magic. However, Mercy thought as she looked at the house, with its metal door and unwelcomingly barred windows, something tells me that merely knocking would be an exercise in suicide. Let’s just take a few steps. . . a few dozen steps away, pick up this handy pebble, throw it at the door and-hit-the-ground-oh-Tartarus! There was a roaring noise closely followed by utter silence. Shakily, mane smoking slightly, Mercy righted herself, glaring at the building for a few moments. Or rather, what we left of the structure; the doorway, once a proud metallic portcullis, had been converted into a molten shuriken that was now embedded halfway into the earth twenty feet behind her. The rest of the building, primarily wooden, had somehow fared better; there was a bit of an ember-like glow where the wood met the utter destruction, but otherwise there was little that was actively burning. And there, at the edge of the devastation, standing just before the smoldering gate of the house, was a grey pony wearing a saucepan on her head as a makeshift helmet. She blinked unsteadily for a few minutes before turning slightly and muttering something about “Little bugs, listening everywhere. . .” Mercy caught Crack Pot in a flying tackle before she got too far back into the house. *** “I’m sorry.” “You’re not getting out of this.” “Never expected to. I’m sorry.” “. . . we’re brothers. It’d be unnatural to not expect a jab or two.” “Still. It wasn’t right. I’m sorry.” “Lots of things aren’t, and stop saying that.” “. . . sorry.” “Enough! Think nothing of it! It’s fine! You still aren’t getting out of this!” “Stop assuming I’m so shallow!” “Fine.” “. . .” “. . .” “. . . I don’t know what to do or say to them, Bill.” “Neither do I.” “How am I supposed to help them?” “Just be there. Talk with them, treat them like normal people. Shouldn’t be that hard.” “. . . sounds simple enough, I suppose. . .” “Just be sure to leave in time to look unflappable.” “Why’s that?” “You don’t want to vomit while speaking to them, do you? It’s the smell, really, that gets to you, you know? When the rot sets in.” “. . . what?” “Oh, look, we’re already here. I’ll see you later.” To his credit, Selim remained quite in control of his stomach for roughly two hours. His evacuation from the hospital was made quite casually, and he managed to coolly walk halfway to the palace before carefully sidestepping into an alleyway and being ill loudly enough to draw a couple onlookers. *** Dear Whiskey, Got one. She also knows some ponies who know some ponies who apparently know some powerful stuff, and she sent a note to them, so that’s settled. Expect them to be on time. It was a short note, admittedly, but it got the message across. Besides, it had disappeared in a poof of magic sparkles less than ten minutes ago under the jittery eyes of Crack Pot, so there wasn’t much that could be done to revise it. Mercy felt somewhat . . . awkward . . . about having Crack Pot be one of the ponies present for whatever Whiskey was planning. By that same token, though, Crack Pot’s sheer magical prowess would be something of an asset to all but the most specific of magical incantations, so perhaps it was nothing to worry about. Silently, Mercy pushed open the door to Ginger’s house, carefully sidestepped a rogue chair, and realized halfway through the main room that her bag was on the table. Strange, Mercy thought, as she trotted over and tossed it onto her back. I. . . guess my memory is failing me. Still, I suppose I should Ginger about this when it’s morning. And with that, she carefully entered her room, unhooked her false leg, stumbled into her bed, and slumbered.