Skyforger

Quietly, the smoldering logs in the forge crackled. It was a soothing sound. It made him tired. Drowsy. Yet no matter how exhausted he was, sleep would no longer come. A low groan slipped from him.

Relentless as ever, his old companion the north wind whistled around the heavy round logs of his smithy, driving fine powder snow into the stout, overheated interior.

Seppo had propped his increasingly heavy head on his hands, burying his bearded face in his palms. The many calluses scratched against his cheeks, chafing the already reddened skin.

He had to smile.

It had never bothered her that his hands were rough and calloused. He pressed them harder against his face, until he could barely breathe. In the darkness, her distorted image flickered through his mind again and again. The way she had laughed. The way she had embraced him.

The way she had kissed him.

Abruptly, Seppo let his hands fall and tore his leaden eyelids open. The flickering light of the dying fire in the forge sent colored specks dancing before his eyes. They formed mirages and illusions. Yet even in all his haze - this one cursed thought could not be drowned, not even by jug after jug of kotikalja.

She was dead.

As if pulled by silken threads, he sprang to his feet. His knees groaned miserably at the sudden movement, cracking like frost-split branches in the taiga.

He had to stoke the fire.

Routine motions. Actions etched into him until they were pure instinct. Repeated over and over in his lifetime.

Don’t think. Just don’t think.

Mechanically, his hands fed more coarse logs into the fire, stirred the embers with the heavy cast-iron hook. At last, the flames bit into the dry birch. The crackling grew louder, until it filled the small room, drowning even the howling of the north wind.

The fire flared bright. With an expressionless face, he stared into the tongues of flame licking at the wood, felt the searing heat against his face and the cutting cold at his back, turned toward the door. Yet neither could reach him anymore.

He had hoped.

Prayed so fiercely that the death of her murderer would grant him peace. And if not peace, then at least something like satisfaction.

Retribution. Revenge. Absolution.

Anything.

But it had not.

He felt nothing at all.

Everything seemed entirely meaningless.

Apathetically, he stared down at his hands. Cracked and calloused. And like himself, so utterly useless.

He was endlessly alone in this snowbound wilderness they had once called their home. Night after night, it felt more like a prison.

With a terrible howl, the ever-familiar north wind burst into his cabin, shattering the silence like an uninvited guest.

Mercilessly, it set the snowflakes it carried into a frantic dance.

He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. There she was again. One of those illusions his tortured mind conjured. The glittering crystals seemed to shape the form of a woman.

A silvery being. Ethereal. Beautiful.

Longing, he reached out trembling hands toward her - but within a few heartbeats, the vision dissolved in the omnipresent heat of the forge.

No. No, it couldn’t go on like this.

In a rage he had not known in a long time, his arms swept across the table. Clattering, echoing, he gathered every piece of metal he could seize - the heavy kettle, the mugs, the wedding jewelry her mother had passed down.

Unfinished swords were torn from the quenching basin.

More, more… he needed more. It wasn’t enough. With a single motion, he hurled everything into the large crucible above the fire. Impatient, he waited until the molten mixture could be poured into a mold. The heat of the boiling metal drove thick beads of sweat onto his brow. Carelessly, he tore his tunic over his head and wiped his burning face with the rough linen. The salt stung his eyes.

A dense cloud of steam filled the smithy shortly after, as he quenched the cast metal and immediately reheated it. The smoke ate into his lungs like acid, but he did not care.

His rage rose, scalding up his throat. He was furious. Deeply, immeasurably furious. He could not even say at what.

At her murderer, for taking her from him? At her, for no longer being by his side?

At himself, for sinking into wretched self-pity?

He could not name it. But it no longer mattered.

Again and again, his mighty hammer struck the glowing metal. Blow after heavy blow. It wasn’t right yet.

No. No, no… it had to become softer. Smoother.

More graceful.

With practiced movements, he heated the metal block again until it burned white-hot.

Once more, smoke surged toward the ceiling as he cooled it with a sweep of water. Sweat ran down his brow and bare chest, trailing in branching lines along his back. Carefully, he began working on the finer details. Gently, almost tenderly, he shaped the familiar curves.

He felt his throat tighten with rapture as, after hours of work, he stepped back to behold his creation.

He could hardly believe it.

His heart pounded violently against his chest, as if it would break his ribs and claw its way free.

The sight of her made him shiver.

She was her perfect likeness.

All his skill as a smith had flowed into this creature. An elf. A fairy.

His goddess. His queen.

Her golden lips smiled at him, alluring. How he had longed for them, through all those lonely hours.

Almost reverently, he traced the familiar contours with his finger. They were still slightly warm. He closed his eyes.

And for a moment, he could pretend it was truly her.

Her. His goddess. His queen. His wife.

That she had not gone ahead of him into the realm of the dead. For a moment, he could imagine warm, pulsing blood flowing through this body.

Carefully, Seppo lay down beside the silvery form, resting his arm gently across her still-warm chest, nestling his head against her shoulder, and closing his eyes.

Tired. So endlessly tired.

His hand trembled as it traced the delicate lines of her body. At last, he could find peace. But just as he was about to slip into sleep, a feeling crept through him that made his eyes snap open in terror.

His hand froze mid-caress, hovering above the gleaming skin.

Cold.

The metal body beneath his fingertips began to cool.

Frantically, he pushed himself up, cupped her cheeks, and pressed a desperate kiss to her lips.

He squeezed his eyes shut, stifling a scream.

Cold.

Lifeless.

His fingers clenched around her narrow face. Tears streamed down his heated cheeks. A sob tore from his throat, slowly turning into a guttural choking sound.

It wasn’t right. No… she wasn’t right. She would never be right.

It felt as though the sobbing cauterized his throat, crushed the air from his aching lungs. The beautiful face before him blurred more and more. Yet no matter how indistinct it became, the dead eyes seemed always to look straight through him.

The realization cut through his heart like a blade.

She was not real.

No matter how hard he tried to deny it, with every passing minute, the body of silver and gold grew colder.

Rigid. Dead.

The icy grip of loss seized his heart, crushing it with brutal force, and drove a scream of rage and pain from him.

As though the body beside him had suddenly turned to molten lead, Seppo leapt up, stumbled, nearly fell from his workbench. He had to put distance - any distance - between himself and this unholy thing.

Panicked, he brushed the sweat-matted hair from his face and looked around. His gaze flickered through the dim hut before settling on his heavy sledgehammer.

In a single motion - grasp and swing - Seppo brought the massive tool crashing down upon the silver woman with all his strength.

The sound of shattering metal reminded him of breaking bones.

She was not real.

Again he struck.

She was not real.

Again and again.

She would never be real.

The metal dented, split, shattered into countless fragments that scattered across the smithy, rolling, clinking softly as they came to rest. The once-beautiful face bore no resemblance to hers anymore. Those empty, dead eyes would never look through him again.

He raised the hammer one last time to grind even the smallest pieces into dust but stopped mid-swing.

He heard it.

His old friend, the north wind.

It roared and rushed around the hut, carrying scraps of sound, fragments of words. At first faint - little more than a hoarse whisper. Then louder. Louder still.

Breathing heavily, Seppo lowered the hammer and looked down at the scattered, gleaming pieces of metal at his feet.

The north wind had always been a fickle creature, he thought, as a faint smile crept across his lips.

No longer in rage, but with careful intent, he began to gather the fragments. They had splintered into every corner of his forge. At last, he dropped the final piece into a coarse burlap sack and lifted it, testing the weight. He nodded, satisfied.

Without much thought, he grabbed the first scrap of cloth he could throw over himself and hoisted the heavy sack onto his shoulder before stepping out into the dark night.

The moon shone pale and feeble upon the white expanse stretching before him like an endless sea. His legs sank to the knees in snow as he fought his way through the drifts. His breath burst from his mouth in thick, white clouds. The weight of the sack dragged him deeper with every step, making each movement agonizingly slow.

But he had a destination. He knew it.

He only had to follow the north wind.

Gasping, Seppo climbed the steep cliff. Meter by meter. His chest heaving, rattling, he finally stopped.

The wind howled, tugging at his hair, numbing his fingers. Far below lay the sea - a sluggish, black mass. His gaze lifted to the equally black sky. The moon seemed so lost amid all that darkness.

So alone.

Like himself.

With all the strength he could muster, Seppo swung the sack and poured its contents over the edge of the cliff.

At first one, then two, then more and more dots of light - made of shattered fragments of metal - joined the pale reflection of the moon. Soon they began to illuminate the night sky with their silver and golden glow.

Seppo nodded, satisfied, and stepped back in quiet reverence. The black shroud above him was now speckled with hundreds of glistening lights.

Silently, he gazed out over the sea. At the countless reflections of the glittering sky. Points of light upon the firmament - his creation.

He had to smile, even as tears filled his eyes.

The scattered pieces of his silver bride now lit the night.

The world.

He swallowed hard and wiped at his burning eyes with the back of his hand. For the first time, the memory no longer hurt as he began to whisper:

“As you once lit my world.”