With each crushing blow he poured his pain. Beneath the weight of his hammer, the strength which he put behind it, there was no choice but to give way. He wished that he could lose himself in his fury, that he could let it grow with each strike - but he could not. Not really. If he did, the shape of the metal he worked would be lost, the form that he sought would be undone and he'd have to start anew - such was something his master would not so lightly allow. So as he worked and the shape he sought became more apparent, he changed from a more forceful approach to one with more care, carefully ensuring the quality of his work. It was one of the reasons, if not the reason that he was still here when so many others had been sold off - or worse.
He was good.
Because of this, his master, who he knew only as The Blacksmith even after six long years, treated him somewhat better than his previous masters. He was given regular meals, and he was even given his own, humble dwelling behind the forge, little more than a lean-to. He was also afforded the freedom to move around on his own. However, he was bound at the neck by a clasp, chained to a great anchor. Grasping the chain and pulling the weight would save him any strain on his neck, and he was strong enough to pull it, but it prevented him from moving very quickly. But as far as The Blacksmith was concerned, Terrell was never anything more than his property, and he had been thoroughly treated as such. His sides were still bruised from the last beating he'd been given for "poor behaviour."
He wished so badly he could put The Blacksmith's head beneath his hammer instead of this metal which he shaped so diligently. So diligently, and yet this supposed blacksmith who barely lifted a finger in recent years and claimed all of the effort as his own, sold everything with only his name attached, professing only his own handiwork. But with these chains, bound to these great weights, he'd never get close enough in time. So he had to remain as he was, as he had been for so long, wishing for a time in his memories that were now so distant and vague. He could hardly say he missed his home and family anymore, instead he could only say he missed the memory of them.
Hours passed, and the sun sat low in the sky, and all the while he had worked without rest, carefully crafting a suit of armour requested by some nearby noble or the like. Hell if he knew, really. He was only ever told what to do, not why. But what he did know, as he was so frequently reminded, was that it was taking him forever to complete the entire suit, as there had been quite a bit of intricacy requested, all of which was course Terrell's responsibility as well, all under strict warning that if he screwed it up he would never be sold again.
Terrell knew what that meant.
"Terrell," the Blacksmith finally barked, "how much longer is this damn suit going to take?"
"At least another week sir, it's been-"
"It's been three bloody months! I'd have had it done in half the time. Maybe I should just sell you off, I'll just be damn sure to find the worst buyer I can for you. You're hardly worth my effort. Now I'll be back here at dawn, and you best be back at it before I get here. Now get lost."
Terrell didn't say a word. He put his head down, removed his gloves, and after picking up what few things were "his," he pulled at the weight and started on his way out.
He was good.
Because of this, his master, who he knew only as The Blacksmith even after six long years, treated him somewhat better than his previous masters. He was given regular meals, and he was even given his own, humble dwelling behind the forge, little more than a lean-to. He was also afforded the freedom to move around on his own. However, he was bound at the neck by a clasp, chained to a great anchor. Grasping the chain and pulling the weight would save him any strain on his neck, and he was strong enough to pull it, but it prevented him from moving very quickly. But as far as The Blacksmith was concerned, Terrell was never anything more than his property, and he had been thoroughly treated as such. His sides were still bruised from the last beating he'd been given for "poor behaviour."
He wished so badly he could put The Blacksmith's head beneath his hammer instead of this metal which he shaped so diligently. So diligently, and yet this supposed blacksmith who barely lifted a finger in recent years and claimed all of the effort as his own, sold everything with only his name attached, professing only his own handiwork. But with these chains, bound to these great weights, he'd never get close enough in time. So he had to remain as he was, as he had been for so long, wishing for a time in his memories that were now so distant and vague. He could hardly say he missed his home and family anymore, instead he could only say he missed the memory of them.
Hours passed, and the sun sat low in the sky, and all the while he had worked without rest, carefully crafting a suit of armour requested by some nearby noble or the like. Hell if he knew, really. He was only ever told what to do, not why. But what he did know, as he was so frequently reminded, was that it was taking him forever to complete the entire suit, as there had been quite a bit of intricacy requested, all of which was course Terrell's responsibility as well, all under strict warning that if he screwed it up he would never be sold again.
Terrell knew what that meant.
"Terrell," the Blacksmith finally barked, "how much longer is this damn suit going to take?"
"At least another week sir, it's been-"
"It's been three bloody months! I'd have had it done in half the time. Maybe I should just sell you off, I'll just be damn sure to find the worst buyer I can for you. You're hardly worth my effort. Now I'll be back here at dawn, and you best be back at it before I get here. Now get lost."
Terrell didn't say a word. He put his head down, removed his gloves, and after picking up what few things were "his," he pulled at the weight and started on his way out.
