"Oh why are we so sad..."

1

clang

Sparks flew along with Toran’s hammer as he raised it for another strike

Clang

The last dents were almost straightened out.  Just a few more hits…

Clang

Outside his workshop he heard footsteps. Not unlike any other he heard all day, of people walking the streets, ignoring his smithy, but these were light-footed and approached his front door with haste.

“not again.” Toran thought.

Clang

Sparks flew again, but not as high and hot as before. The steel started to cool down. Toran picked up the sword he was working on from the anvil and inspected it. Not a bent or dent was to be seen.

“Perfect.”  He said to himself.

He had no time to inspect his handiwork any further. The door to his workshop flew open and several kids barged in.
“Hey you! Demon man!” they yelled. One boy threw a handful of mud at the blacksmith. He parried it, still holding the sword, which fell victim to the boy’s attack.  Toran saw how the goo sizzled on the red-hot sword, staining the steel and ruining his day’s work. He took his hammer and flung it at the boys, who were cackling madly while skillfully dodging Toran’s counter attack.

“OUT! OUT, ALL OF YOU! LEAVE US ALONE” a harsh, female voice cried from the corner.  A woman with messy blonde hair who held a crying toddler on her hip came charging in on the boys, armed with a broom and a menacing fury.
“DEMON MAN!! DEMON MAN!!” the boys sneered as they took off to the street, chased away by the harsh blows of the woman’s broomstick.

“Your son’s awake.” The woman said frustrated. She marched over to her husband and handed over the toddler, whose head was as red as Toran’s furnace.

“I can never get him back to sleep. I still don’t understand how you can do it. I failed as a mother.”

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Amelia. Men just see more eye to eye, I guess.”

His son always preferred his fathers’ strong arms above his mothers’ small and skinny ones. Granted, she also never had a lot of bosom to speak of that a child could snuggle against. Toran loved her nonetheless. Her bony appearance concealed a warm and full heart and a temperament that fitted with his profession.

“Sleep little Brendyn.  No more tears.” He consoled his two year-old and wiped away the tears from his face. A minute later, Brendyn rested his head on his father’s chest, lazily blinking his eyes.
“You work magic with that boy.” Amelia said as Toran gently gave Brendyn back to her.  She got up and brought her son back to the main house, separated from the workshop by a small door, to put him back in his crib.

“It’s been twenty years since your father passed. Twenty! Why can’t they just forget all of it?” she started ranting as she came back to the workshop.

“This town hardly forgets anything.” Toran replied as he redirected his attention to the ruined blade, trying to fix the damage done by the mud.

“What they forget is that children aren’t to blame for their parent’s actions! You are not your father’s image.”

“Thank the Gods for that. Hopefully that tradition carries on so at least Brendyn will grow up wise and handsome.”

Clang clang clang his hammer sounded again.

“You are wise and handsome!” Amelia said sternly.

“If I’d be wise I would have left this town years ago.” Toran said, and his face looked grim. “Someplace people didn’t know my name or heritage.”

The clanging of hammer on steel was the only sound in the room for a minute. During which Toran reflected on the reason why his family was shunned here in Blackmount.
He could still hear his father’s screams as he was burned at the stake twenty years ago. He still didn’t know exactly what went into him. Maybe the years of torment finally got the best of him. The torment of a family name and legacy that could not be erased.

They called it the curse of Wildfyre.

Reynard Fyre was Toran’s ancestor. He lost count on how many generations he was removed from him, but the story itself took place almost two hundred years ago. Blackmount was just a settlement on the slopes of the old mountain back then, built to house the miners who came to find what they called Fire’s gold. The mountain housed an ore vein that produced golden nuggets with a fiery red glow. Reynard being one of the first who found this hidden treasure, he acquired his fitting last name.
 However, disaster struck when Reynard’s’ pickaxe accidentally struck deeper than he meant to.  Instead of gold, hot lava came streaming out of the mountain. Everyone in town would soon discover this wasn’t any ordinary mountain, but a dormant volcano, that had now been brutally awoken.

The river of fire that came flowing out left behind a true rampage.  The town that was built on hope and the promise of wealth was destroyed within a day. All fingers pointed at Reynard, for him being the one driving his pickaxe into the wrong place. The family name has not recovered since.

Toran’s grandfather has built the smithy right on top of that faithful crack, trying to give a bittersweet twist to the tragedy and created a future for his family as a blacksmith, providing the local law enforcement with much needed weaponry. Many outsiders still sought after the fabled fire-gold. But Blackmount was a town that would claim what was their own. 

After the disaster, the town got back on its feet simply by not letting anyone but themselves make use of the riches they had accumulated. It moved higher up the mountain.  Below them, dense woods had sprouted from the ashes. The only point of access in and out of the town was a narrow, winding road where you could easily get lost if you didn’t know the way.

Toran’s family never felt connected to the rest of the town. They were outcasts, pariahs, thanks to Reynard’s actions anyway. But the town had a sense of greed that the Fyre’s didn’t share.

Still, with their name being tied to the town for better or worse, they never left. The town needed a blacksmith, and the Fyre’s were the one to do it. But not many sons of Fyre have seen their fathers grow old. And all of their deaths were related to heat, one way or another. Whispers go around town that it was the punishment for Reynard’s mistake.

Reynard’s son, who was only seven when his father died, fell victim in his adult years to a heatstroke after a particular hot summer plagued the country, leaving his ten year old son behind. That fellow grew up only to be beaten by a freakish fever at the age of 30. The generations after that were burned at the stake, burned in a house fire, succumbed in more summer heats or died in wars where they were burned alive. Toran’s grandfather fell into his own forge, but no sooner than the ripe age of 70. His own father was 72 when his doom came. So whatever the curse might be, it seemed to be getting gentler. Hence Toran gave in to his lovely wife’s wish to have children, even though he once swore to stop the bloodline and Wildfyre’s curse forever by remaining childless. But nevertheless, Brendyn came along and he couldn’t be happier.

Still a fear lingered, that he would one day make a fatal mistake like his father, Mace Fyre. 
He was a gentle man, but a bitter one. Longing for the normal life that the other townsfolk seemed to have, but he never knew.  Finally he cracked, and figured that the only way to get some wealth was trough backstabbing and stealing. He broke into the house of the local magistrate, grabbed everything that was shiny that he could get his hands on and tried to run. He got caught and was sentenced to death by burning. While the flames creeped up on him, he laughed like a maniac. He yelled that one day, greed will be everyone’s undoing, like it was his.
“You will all burn!” he screamed over and over again, until his words couldn’t be heard over the roaring flames anymore. 

Toran was a little boy back then.  Not aware of danger and blinded by fear and grief, he had run to the pyre to free his father. His face and arms got burned in the process, leaving him disfigured. Hence, the local children often referred to him as ‘Demon man.’

Finally a woman from the outside once came to town to work as a maid for one of the higher families.  Toran saw her and instantly fell in love. Amelia has always ignored his scars and saw the warm heart lying within. Her being an outsider, she never cared for his bad family reputation. She wasn’t an exceptional beauty, but she was Toran’s queen nonetheless.

“Don’t let them get to you, Toran.” Amelia said sympathetically, as she approached her husband and pressed a kiss on his forehead. “Hm. Sweaty.” She smiled.

Toran smiled back while still hammering away on the blade, clearing the settled mud. Amelia left the workshop as Toran threw the blade into a bucket of water to cool, before wiping his hands on the cloth hanging on a nail next to the forge.

“Oh they will get to me… one day.” He said to himself.

 

2

A few days had passed and a market had come to town. It was not often that traveling merchants would dare to take the dangerous path up the mountain to the town, so this event was a rare privilege. So rare that Amelia had even managed to persuade her husband to come along.  He didn’t like to go to public events, for obvious reasons. But Amelia has been nagging about making herself a new dress for weeks now and the merchants sold fabrics that were not available in town at any other time.

So it was on this surprisingly sunny autumn day that he found himself strolling towards the town’s square. Brendyn trudged between his parents, holding hands with each. Every other step they would swing him off the ground, making him giggle with glee.

“I told you, you should get out more.” Amelia said in between swings.

“It’s a fine day to start that habit, indeed.” Toran said. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with air that for once wasn’t riddled with parts of coal and soot. His wife was right. Sometimes just being a normal family, heading for the market, was worth the stares he had to endure along the way.

Because there were still many who quickly looked away once Toran passed them by, hardly concealing their disgust.

Among the many sounds around him, Toran heard a familiar sound approaching; fast, light footsteps of little hellions. From afar he heard the chanting begin. “Demon man.  Demon man!”

“Oh, for once can’t you catch a break?” Amelia sighed. A furnace started blazing in her eyes. She picked Brendyn up and her pace quickened.

“Let’s just ignore them.” She said.

The bratty boys had caught up with them. Toran wanted to shove them aside, following his wife’s advice, but the boys were ready for any resistance.

“HEY! FREAK!” one of them yelled. Toran noticed his son getting nervous in his mother’s arms, aware of the hostility.

“Get lost, before I make you regret!” Toran grumbled, hoping that would be that. The group of boys cackled menacingly. “Hey demon man! I have something for you!” The brat said. From under his jacket he unveiled a heavy brick. He was ready to swing, but then for a split second laid his eyes on Amelia and Brendyn. “Demon spawn!!” he yelled. He hurled the brick towards the woman and her child.

Toran reacted quickly. He pushed his wife aside – who fell down on the street with a scream - and caught the brick out of mid-air.  He didn’t think. He just wanted to protect his family. He also felt anger, something that has built up within him for all those years, finally receiving a form of release.  A movement, a scream, a flash of red.

Toran came to his senses and saw what he had done. His first thought was that he was lucky that he didn’t hit the boy on the head. He saw the little culprit holding his hand in agony; a now disfigured one. The brick had landed on his hand as he was mockingly pointing at Toran. It looked like every bone in it was broken. The other boys gathered around the wounded one, tears started streaming down his face as he realized he might never use his hand again. That, along with the pain that came creeping in once the initial shock passed.

Toran was suddenly painfully aware of the silence around him. The whole street had fallen silent and every last person looked at the shocking scene. And every last face was filled with hatred and blame.

A voice cried out from the crowd.

“What have you done to my boy!?” A man stepped forward, rushing towards to crying little shit with the broken hand. He carefully inspected the disfigured limb and his face turned white.

“You disfigured my son!” he yelled at Toran. He then addressed the crowd.  “You all saw what he did! The liar! The thief! Now also a child molester!”

“Your son should have not threatened my family!” Toran snapped back.  

“Liar!” the man shouted.

The crowd started to repeat the accusation, and then some more.  “Liar! Brute! Demon man!” they called him. Some started spitting at him. All the while Amelia was shielding her terrified son with her arms. Toran stood beside her, and wrapped his arm over her bony shoulders.

“We must punish him!” a voice yelled. It was answered with a lot of approving sounds.

“What shall we do with him?” another asked.

“He’s a Fyre, is he? We shall let him live up to his legacy!” the father of the bratty boy suggested.

Again a wave of acclaim echoed over the street.

Several men stepped forward and grabbed Toran by his arms, dragging him away from his family.

“Toran!! No! Let my husband go!” Amelia cried. She held Brendyn even tighter.

One of the men holding Toran suddenly looked at him, and back at Amelia with a dastardly look in his eyes. His gaze rested on Brendyn. “No…” he said softly. He then raised his voice. “No. If we get rid of Toran alone, the legacy will continue with his son. I say we end this bane on this town once and for all! Exterminate the curse of Wildfyre, root and stem!”

“Yes! Yes!” the people hollered.

“And let’s do that, in the old traditional way that fits the demise of a Fyre.” He continued, now mostly addressing Toran.

Toran’s insides felt like they have been turned inside out. Fear flashed in his eyes. The man holding him saw it, and he laughed.

“Burn them!” he cried out, stomping his hand in the air.

“NO!!!” Toran shouted. Before he could resist in any way a thump in his gut made him bend over. Another hit to his back made him fall to the ground. He heard Amelia screaming as she was dragged away from him.

The people dragged them towards the heart of the town. The merchants there were surprised to see the angry mob approaching. The father of the bratty boy leaded the way. Holding his son’s good hand; he had the other resting on his chest, and was still sobbing from the pain.

“Out of my way, outsider scum!” the man yelled to one of the merchants. With one single sweep he turned the stall over and out of the way. At the center of the square stood a pole, now adorned with banners and colorful flags to cheer up the market. Amelia and Brendyn were dragged towards it, kicking and screaming. Quickly the people had turned every table in the market over and assembled them at the foot of the pole. They snapped the legs off the tables and ripped the banners from the pole. Mother and child were thrown against it, and swiftly tied up with ropes.

“NO!!” Toran shouted again. At least six men were holding him tight. He struggled, fought, tried to fling his fists towards them, but his arms were twisted behind his back and he was helpless.  He never felt so immensely powerless in his life as he saw his wife and child, his reasons to live, being tied up, ready to be murdered.  Someone had found a canister of oil and he dumped it on the pile of wood.

A torch was also quickly found and brought to the center.

Amelia screamed and screamed. Brendyn was tied up in her arms, his head red and wailing at the top of his lungs. “DADA!!” he shouted.

That little word – not even a real one to begin with, just a two year old’s silly version of a title that Toran held dearest – pierced in his chest like a spear. 

He saw the man with the torch approach the pile of wood. He couldn’t hear anything anymore. Not even his own shouts. His mind, as defense for a trauma that it knew it wouldn’t survive, blocked out the screams from his most loved ones. He saw them. He saw the flames creeping up on them but didn’t hear anything. He saw Amelia cock her head backwards in a last scream to the sky. He saw his little boy being eaten by the flames. All in silence.

 Mere minutes had passed. For Toran it was an eternity. At some point his eyesight gave in as well. Again a last resort from his deepest instincts that tried to shield him from trauma.

Sounds started seeping in trough the protecting filter of his senses. He opened his eyes and saw the faint outline of a man coming closer. The brat’s father.

He forced Toran to look at him. Behind him, Toran saw smoke rising from a charred figure.

“Banish him. Let him live with what he has done.” The man said.

The crowd started moving again, dragging Toran away from the square. He didn’t even resist anymore.

They hauled him to the edge of the town and threw him down the mountainside. Toran felt himself falling. He cringed as his body hit the rocky slopes and glided down.

He finally came to a standstill on a flat piece on the mountainside. His body felt broken, but a quick mental scan of his skeleton proved it only felt that way. One could say he was lucky for that matter.

He wished he’d rather died. Once he gained enough strength to crawl to his knees and wiped the dirt from his eyes he thought about jumping down the remaining length of the slope, but something inside him resisted from that suicidal thought. A burning feeling.

The feeling of revenge.