sentiment, or cowardice?: or

"I don't want to do blacksmithing." The child whined.

 

It was an unbearably sunny day in Acrine, and Sammich, 13 years old, was already drenched in sweat. Tescoh, who had started learning the ropes earlier that year in the spring, was diligently at work in the forge. No complaints, of course, from him or the adults watching him work. His blacksmithing was perfect. Like everything else he did. Sammich, on the other hand... 

 

"You haven't even tried," chided his mom, "how do you know whether you'd like doing it or not?" She towered over him with arms crossed. Her fingers, hidden by black gloves, were calloused from years of blacksmithing herself. 

 

"I haven't tried jumping off a cliff and crashing to the rocks below, and I know I wouldn't enjoy that very much either." Sammich shrugged, staring absent-mindedly into the distance. "Why do I have to learn at all anyway. I don't want to do it now, and I don't want to do it ever."

 

His mother frowned, biting back the obvious reply of comparing him to his brother. It was really hard, sometimes, to decide not to go for the easy target. "What are you going to do then, Sammich? If you have any other jobs you plan on doing, you haven't brought them up. Blacksmithing is what our family's done for decades, and," hoping this will sway him, she added, "It's easy work, really. If you can't do it, we won't force you. If you make a sword by today, your father will make your favourite lasagna for dinner."

 

It was meant to sound like a challenge, but Sammich had always been one to take note of their exact words.

 

"Okay." He balked at having been handed an easy way to get out of blacksmithing. It was then that he learned to utilise his incompetence. "I'll do it, jeez." When his mom walked away, he uncrossed his fingers. 

 

After that, it was a blur. He made a mockery of blacksmithing, putting in no effort but just enough, that it appeared he was genuinely struggling to do even the basics. It was, truthfully, something Sammich disliked because of his ineptness at it. He lacked the strength and will to do it, and was acutely aware. It wasn't long until the adults teaching him dragged him aside and relayed the day's failure to his mother.

 

"Go to your room." She said a little disappointedly, "I suppose it's not your calling after all. Maybe you'll get a job under your father." She murmured. Although she didn't say it, Sammich could see that she was thinking—"Where did I go wrong with this one?"

 

He left with little satisfaction, walking back to the house alone when an overfamiliar voice called out. "Mich! Wait!"

 

Tescoh, with his hair also tied up to keep it out of his way, approached with an idea. It was impossible to tell them apart if not for the signs of hard work in the forge on Tescoh. "You could always start smaller," he said encouragingly, "You could make like, a dagger or something. It might be easier, but I haven't actually done that so I dunno. All I've made are swords. It's honestly quite boring." He held no condescension, just giving advice out of the goodness of his heart. The sunlight covered everything in a golden glow, and Tescoh was blocking out the harshness of it. Sammich thought about it. A dagger, huh? Now that might be something he could actually wield.

 

"Maybe we'll get lasagna today after all." He grinned. "She'll listen if you suggest the idea, Tes."

 

The two went back together and bargained with their mother. It was still hard work for Sammich, and he was pleased to find out that his earlier reluctance nevertheless ensured they wouldn't seriously force him into the family business. It took the rest of the day to make, and by the end of the day he was exhausted. The promised meal felt deserved even though the finished product was not immune to all the common beginner mistakes. Either way, it was more than what Sammich had expected of himself. His goal was to get out of work, but he does concede to doing it if the pros outweigh the cons. It felt like one of those days where he did something after all.

 

For months, the plain, yet painstakingly crafted knife was dear to him— 

Until his relationship with his brother first began to sour, and all the imperfections and missed potential in the only blade he ever made reared its head, became sickening to look at and grating to be compared to.

Sammich left it under the shelf, and told everyone he had lost it. They believed him.