Renn watched, captivated, as his father deftly forged a one-hander sword, the metal glowing red-hot as it emerged from the fire. The rhythmic sound of the hammer striking the anvil echoed through the blacksmith’s shop, a familiar melody that comforted Renn.
With the precision of a master, Alwen Ironworth shaped the molten metal into a slender, graceful blade. Holding it up to the light, he admired his handiwork, the silver pommel catching a glint of the sun and sand that trickled through the roof.
Alwen was a skilled blacksmith with strong, calloused hands and a thick beard that always seemed to have a bit of soot in it. He spent long hours in his workshop, forging weapons and tools with care and precision. Turning to his son, his face registered a grin.
“This is for you, my boy,” he declared, presenting the sword to Renn with a flourish. “A warrior’s weapon for my warrior son. You’re twelve now. From now on, no more practicing on wooden swords.”
Renn’s eyes widened with excitement as he accepted the sword, feeling its weight in his small hands. He could hardly believe that it was really his. “Can I be a knight?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Like every boy in Greensvale, he wanted nothing more than to make him proud.
“You can be anything, son,” his father answered with a wistful sigh. “As long as you put your mind to it. Once you show your skills in a tourney, the lords will throw their money at you and sponsor your Ironcrest Acaedmy induction!”
Renn smiled wide. Of course, when he was born to a humble family in a small village nestled among the rolling hills of Highridge Kingdom, in a corner cut off by mountains and forests, such minor dreams still meant a lot.
In Greensvale, warrior boys turned out to be a good addition to the infantry that patrolled the marches and brought back gold with them. Climbing up the military ranks to become a knight was a dream for the sleeping man. Rest of them resorted to farming and livestock management for money.
Alwen was a patrolling swordsman in his prime days and retired from the military with a good pouch of gold. His wife, Dyana, on the other hand, was a gentle woman with soft, caring eyes and long, flowing hair. She was a talented healer who could soothe away pain with her glowing touch and heal injuries with her knowledge of herbs and natural remedies. Renn loved her deeply, but he couldn’t help but feel torn between the two worlds his parents represented.
From the moment Renn could walk, his father would share with him the secrets of his trade. “Now, let me show you how to use it,” his father said, demonstrating the proper way to hold the sword and make a piercing attack. “Remember, Renn, the key is to strike with precision and power. Aim for the heart.”
As they practiced, Renn’s mother watched from the doorway, her brow furrowed with worry. He knew that his mother didn’t approve of her son learning the ways of violence, and she wanted him to follow a different path. “My sweet boy,” she would tell him, while tending to his sore hands and legs after his practice sessions, “there’s more to life than swords and bloodshed. May the gods guide you on a journey of compassion and wisdom.”
***
Renn’s father continued to teach him very evening, their shadows dancing against the walls of the forge. And although Renn knew his mother’s worries, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride as he wielded the sword, the promise of a warrior’s life calling to him like a siren’s song.
Renn got his first cut the third evening. He winced as his sword slipped from his grip, the blade biting into his forearm. The warm trickle of blood ran down his arm and he looked up at his father with concern.
“Ah, first cut, eh?” Alwen guffawed, checking the wound. “It’s a minor flesh wound, you see. Now stop making that face and off you go to your mother. Ask her for a salve and bandage. It will get better in no time.”
When Renn went to the small herbal garden in his backyard, his mother rushed to his side, her face etched with concern. “Renn, my child,” she scolded gently, “you must be more careful.”
Her gentle hands applied a soothing salve to his wound, the pain dissipating as she worked her magic.
“How do you do that?” He asked. “Why does your hand glow?”
“I am a healer, son. It’s a gift I have.”
“Can I have that gift, too?”
“Come, Renn,” she said softly, guiding him away from his sword practice. “Take a walk with me.” She led him to her small herb garden in the backyard, a sanctuary filled with vibrant greenery and the delicate scent of flowers. There, she pointed out various plants, explaining their medicinal properties and the intricate balance between healing and harm. “All these plants, they have healing properties. All of us, animals or plants–and some say, even the rocks–have a core of spiritual energy. We call it the Vitality Core. If we can absorb the healing aura from these plants and store it in the Core, don’t you think we can use the energy to heal other things?”
“Yes,” replied the boy.
“So if we cultivate a healing aura, we can be a healer. So, to answer your question, yes, you can be a healer too.” Dyana sat down next to Renn, a gentle breeze rustling her hair as they overlooked the garden. Her eyes met his, filled with warmth and concern. “Renn,” she began softly, “I know that your heart is torn between the worlds of healing and violence, maybe you are confused about the paths your father and mother has taken. Although they may have nothing in common, I want to help you understand the importance of balance and peace. Only a peaceful mind can cultivate constructive energy.”
Renn fidgeted, feeling the weight of his mother’s gaze. “I know, Mother, but Father always says that battles are part of life, and we must learn to defend ourselves.”
Dyana nodded thoughtfully. “There is truth in your father’s words, Renn. There will always be conflict and strife, but it is our responsibility to choose the path of healing and restoration whenever we can. To mend the broken, rather than add to the destruction.”
Renn’s brow furrowed as he considered her words. “But what if there’s no other choice? What if we must fight to protect our loved ones?”
Dyana sighed, her eyes distant as she searched for the right words. “My son, there may come a time when you must make that choice. But remember, violence only begets more violence. The path of a healer is to bring hope and restoration to those who have been lost or hurt. By healing, we can rebuild the world and bring about lasting peace.”
Renn stared down at his hands, feeling soothing touch of the healing salve that his mother had applied. “But, Mother, what if I’m not strong enough? What if I can’t protect you or Father?”
Dyana placed a comforting hand on Renn’s shoulder, her gaze filled with love and understanding. “Renn, you have a warrior’s heart, and I believe you will always do your best to protect those you love. But remember that true strength is not only found in the swing of a sword, but also in the power of healing and the resilience to rise above violence. It is in embracing both aspects of yourself that you will find your true path and, ultimately, the peace you seek.”
Renn listened politely, his eyes darting to the sword that lay abandoned nearby. Though his mother’s wisdom was undeniable, his heart longed for the excitement of swordplay and the thrill of battle.
“Aye, you, woman!” His father barked from the doorway. “Stop teaching bollocks to our son, here. You are softening the resolve of a future warrior!”
“I was merely giving him some lessons I learned from the Temple.”
“Temple, my ass!” Alwen snorted. “Now off you go son. Get us a loaf of bread for dinner.” He threw him a coin.
“Yes, Father.” Renn left the place instantly, before he had to witness any more of the sour conversation between his parents. They would act silent in front of him, but the moment he was away, their conversations turned icy. The tension between Renn’s parents simmered beneath the surface, and he knew that he was the cause of their arguments.
As he walked through the familiar streets, Renn couldn’t help but feel the weight of the choice that lay before him. In the balance hung the fate of his family, the expectations of his parents, and the path that would ultimately define his destiny. His mother’s lessons rang in his ears, a testament to the gentle touch of a healer, but the call of the sword and the dance of battle beckoned to him like a beacon.
The village bakery stood before him, warm and inviting, and as he entered the small shop, he wondered if he could ever truly escape the pull of his father’s world.
As Renn walked through the village, he felt the weight of his parents’ expectations pressing down on him. He loved them both dearly, but he didn’t know how to reconcile their opposing desires for his future.
***
The bell over the door jangled as Renn stepped into the bakery, the warm, yeasty aroma of fresh bread enveloping him. He hesitated, expecting to see the familiar stout figure of the baker, but in his place stood a young girl, her honey-colored hair catching the sunlight streaming in through the window. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as they met Renn’s, and her cheeks flushed with the heat of the oven.
“Greetings,” she said, a hint of shyness in her voice. “I’m Talia. My father is aiding a neighbor with repairs, so the bakery is in my hands today.”
Renn returned her greeting, and introductions were made. As they conversed, Talia divulged her secret longing: to be a warrior, her sword flashing through the air as she fought alongside the legendary heroes of old.
“Girls aren’t expected to crave such things,” she admitted, “but I yearn for strength and courage. I want to be like you.”
His chest swelling with pride, Renn found himself captivated by her spirit and resolve. They exchanged dreams and aspirations until the door creaked open, revealing the baker. A thick mustache adorned his stern face, which softened only slightly at the sight of Renn.
“Ah, the blacksmith’s son,” he remarked, appraising Renn with a scrutinizing gaze. “Word of your swordplay prowess precedes you.”
Renn murmured his thanks, but the baker’s attention was already on his daughter. “Talia, don’t squander your time fraternizing with the smithfolk,” he chided her. “They’re a crude and unrefined bunch, ill-suited for a refined young lady. Be on your way.”
Disappointment flickered across Talia’s face, and she offered Renn an apologetic look before retreating. Anger surged through Renn at the baker’s judgment, but he knew that arguing would prove fruitless. He paid for his bread and left the bakery, his thoughts lingering on Talia and the dreams they shared.
As Renn left the bakery, his heart almost stopped when he heard the sudden, chilling clamor of the town bell. Its ominous peal reverberated through the village, sending shivers down his spine. He knew the bell tolled with one dire purpose: danger approached.
What unforeseen peril could have befallen their tranquil village? He wondered. Renn gripped the hilt of the sword his father had forged for him.
