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Posted on July 13, 2013 at 08:56:36 PM by a r t h u r
 The man’s accent was familiar, and it brought a broader smile to the king’s face. “Ah,” he said his eyes taking on a kind and understanding quality. “You are from Ireland?” Arthur enquired, switching easily from his natural English to borrowed Gaelic. The words slipped easily from his tongue none-the-less until he gave pause, allowing time for the smith to make his response. Tristan frowned at his father a little as he shifted in his chair. His father had endeavoured to teach him a little of the Irish tongue, but it was a very new addition to his repertoire, and when it was spoken at natural speed, he found it very difficult to comprehend anything that the king said. Sighing the prince tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, waiting to see how long it would be before Arthur switched back to English. He didn’t immediately. Instead, the king’s face grew more serious as Fael explained his situation. “I am sorry for your losses,” Arthur told the man before him, still in Gaelic, his tone of voice laced with sincerity, “of course you may stay. This land is called Shaman, and it can be a fresh start for you if you wish it. You have travelled far indeed.” “Blacksmith?” Tristan spoke up, at last, a look of surprise on his face. He had seen Fael’s sword and had studied what he could see of it from his seat. It looked very find indeed. The stranger’s dress had suggested that he was not a man who was used to luxury or find things, and the Prince had been left to assume that the man had made the sword himself. It was unlikely he would have been able to afford to have purchased such a weapon or to have had it made for him. “Sorry,” the prince smiled, sitting forwards in his chair, his green eyes bright, “I’d assumed you were a swordsmith.” He nodded in the direction of the weapon in Fael’s possession. The King followed his son’s gaze and, a few moments later fixed the blacksmith with an interested look. It had been a while since the last royal metal worker had passed on, and with Shaman in a strange kind of insecure lull, the armoury was running low. If Fael was more than a blacksmith, then he could be very useful indeed. “I wonder,” Arthur said, picking up Fael’s native tongue again, “if we might look at your sword.” The king nodded to his son, and Tristan got to his feet. The boy moved along the dais and down the steps at his far end until he was on the polished wood of the floor. He crossed to where the smith was standing and looked up at the visitor. Tristan was tall for his age, but at twelve he was dwarfed by the giant of a man who stood before him. “You can trust Tristan,” Arthur reassured Fael with an encouraging smile, “he knows swords as well as any.”  |
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- Wretches and Kings - By Fael July 14, 2013 at 08:36:27 PM
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