Baelin wet his lips while he mulled her words. Two bells to get ready. It would be plenty of time. It had to be. A pulse of insecurity nagged that it wasn’t nearly enough time. That there would never be enough time. That he was a fool parading around as an Eiyon.
He clasped his hands together and rubbed the scythe on his palm. Dira had to have marked him for a reason. Two bells would be enough.
Dressing well was the first hurdle for the apprentice armorer; namely because he was currently wearing his only outfit and it evidently wasn’t up to Q’s standards. He would need to get it laundered, and quickly.
Baelin met the stranger’s eyes and gave a firm nod. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left her home. His steps long and brisk, he made it out of the Maiden District like a man on a mission. The Sylirans he passed in the lane barely registered for the half-Dhani; all he heard was the sound of the Watchtower ticking away his limited time and all he saw was the fastest route around the obstacles in his way.
A group was chatting amicably in front of the double doors that’d take him down to the Soothing Waters. Normally, Baelin would stall and awkwardly try to squeeze his way behind one of them, perhaps knocking one out of the way in the process. But today there was a determination in his step and, for the first time in a long time, Baelin had no issues with announcing his need to pass with a firm, “Excussse me.” One of the strangers stepped back mechanically, paying him little heed, and Baelin felt a smile tug on the corner of his mouth. There was a slight bounce in his step as he went down the stone steps.
Baelin made eye contact with the receptionist while still on the stairwell. The man behind the desk flashed him a smile and the half-Dhani dug in his pocket for mizas. “I require a bath, towel, ssoap, and laundering for three garmentsss.”
The man behind the desk pulled out a towel and a bar of soap as he announced, “That’ll be two silver and nine copper.” He was saying something else, but Baelin had already deposited the mizas and was hurrying off the men’s locker rooms. His clothes came off in a bare tick, the launderer blinked in surprise when Baelin nearly threw them at him, and he dropped himself in the communal pool with an impolite splash.
In what had to have been his fastest bath yet, Baelin scrubbed every inch of his skin raw and didn’t finish washing his hair until he was certain every bit of the Ironworks was out of it. When he pushed himself out of the water, Baelin felt cleaner than he had in years. Though, truth be told, he was pretty certain the feeling wasn’t just from the bath.
There was a slight delay in waiting for his clothes – they were still far from dry – but Baelin shrugged off the complaints of the launderer and pulled his wet clothes on, ignoring the discomfort. He could finish drying them in the privacy of his apartment.
The half-Dhani booked it back to the Maiden District, taking a different path through the corridors once inside. He grabbed a torch just outside his home before shoving his door open. In contrast to Q’s vibrant apartment, Baelin’s was devoid of color. The weathered wood of his sparse furniture was the closest thing his room had to character.
Baelin stripped once again and draped the damp clothes over his chair. He adjusted the wood in his hearth until he was satisfied it would hold a fire well, then slipped the torch under the small stack.
As chimes went by, the fire grew in size. Baelin scooted the chair closer to the heat and straightened his clothes to better expose them. There was nothing he could do about the small holes that poked through here and there in the garments – not with so little time left. But at least they were clean. If he threw his shoulders back and tried not to glare, he should be more or less presentable.
The slow crackle of the wood and its radiating warmth began to seep into the half-Dhani’s consciousness, unwinding the knot of move-move-move that had been driving him. Baelin sank down on his cot and lost himself in the flames.
Should he say a prayer for the life he was going to take? Baelin was tempted to scoff at the idea. They’ve been dead for a long time now, he thought to himself, It’s hardly murder if they’re already dead.
And yet…
There was no denying the tremors that shook his hands.
Baelin clasped them together to still their shaking and pinched his eyes shut. If nothing else, it couldn’t hurt. “Dira,” he murmured softly into the relative quiet of his room, “Give me sstrength.” A log collapsed in his hearth, punctuating his plea with a loud crack. Baelin wasn’t sure to take that as a good sign or a bad one.
He thought of the Nuit; that misguided soul who wouldn’t rejoin the cycle of their own accord. Staring into the flames, he added, “May itss ssoul make it ssafe to Lhex.”
There was still some time left before he needed to rejoin Q. Baelin hefted himself to his feet and strode over to his uncle’s hammer, its grip feeling both familiar and oddly not. Though, to be fair, it had only ever served as a smithing tool before. Not a weapon.
The armorer tried to remember what his uncle’s laugh had sounded like, but the memory was faded. Baelin blinked furiously and, more to himself than anything, he breathed, “Now and alwaysss, I will sserve the cycle.” Fingers wrapped more tightly around the handle, his knuckles going bone white, and he took a furious swing in the air.
The swing was wide and sloppy – something he might expect from himself if he had tried it with a sword, not the familiar hammer. Baelin forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath and took another swing, this time trying to imagine a large piece of hot steel in front of him. It felt strange to use the heavy forging swing with a regular hammer instead of a sledge hammer. Typically, he’d only use the smithing hammer to ‘tap’ on the steel. This large swing with a wind-up would never be used with a regular hammer; that was a surefire way to ruin your steel. But Baelin had the strong suspicion that ‘tapping’ the Nuit’s head wasn’t the best way to go about things.
And so he tried again, willing himself to get used to the odd swing. His left hand came up to grab air as he swung down again, as if there was a long handle for him to grasp. Baelin let it, not wanting to waste time correcting the useless impulse. The armorer focused on his right hand and the hammer in its grip as he took another large swing down.
Without his left hand braced against the torque he made, the hammerhead twisted slightly in his grasp. Baelin tried again, turning his wrist with the swing. The hammerhead came down straighter. And again. Nearly perfectly in line. Again. There it was. Again. Still straight.
Baelin continued to swing the hammer, bringing it up just above his shoulder and swinging it down in a controlled arc, keeping the hammerhead straight. And now faster. Faster. The hammerhead turned a bit off, so he corrected and then faster.
The apprentice armorer continued to practice a swing that would confuse any other smith while his clothes dried and chimes went by.
And then it was time.
The half-Dhani sucked in a long breath and held it, trying to slow his racing heart. He thought of a bird circling lazily overhead, black stone warm on his back, thin smoke swirling behind the bird to suggest that it was not quite whole. Slowly, he pulled on his now warmed clothes and slipped his uncle’s hammer in at the waist.
He walked with measured strides to Q’s home, knuckles rapping loudly on her door. She looked him over clinically and adjusted a few things, fingers slipping around his waist to tuck his shirt in. Baelin breathed a sigh of relief when she seemed satisfied, not at all knowing what he would have done if his outfit was insufficient.
And then she was walking out to the corridors, papers in hand, and Baelin couldn’t help but wet his lips in anticipation.
