Archive of Our Own

From the Temple of the Ram to the Holy Father’s sprawling residence, atop the very crest of Sanctuary’s holy mountains, was a long and winding road for any traveller. For someone used to taking the unseen paths of teleportation as much – or more! – as walking on his own two feet, it was also a grueling test of a youngster’s patience. Not that Mu was tired, oh no; it would take more than the Holy Hill’s worn spirals to manage that. But, the young Aries Saint murmured softly, it could stand to be at least a little more engaging in places …

: Have no fear of boredom, my young Ram. I have something of great interest to show you now, before the War overtakes us – or time catches me at last. :

: Of course, if you happen to prefer sparring against your seniors and making circuits through the villages to coming with me to Jamir … :

Jamir! Never mind the gentle teasing in the Holy Father’s mind-voice, and never mind propriety – Mu was nothing more than a blur racing up the five remaining stairways, cornsilk hair flapping like a frantic banner behind him and ignoring Aioros’ startled laughter as he shot past the Archer’s forecourt.

If we’re leaving for Jamir, then that must mean I’m ready to be shown the Forge –

The Holy Father stood waiting on the broad stone steps of his own Temple-palace, a hint of a smile peeking through the shadows cast by his helm, a faint breeze ruffling his heavy grey mane. Mu – just slightly breathless – began to sink to one knee, but that formality was promptly waved away.

“Today, it’s going to be rather different, Mu. Now, give me your hand, if you would –“

Mu’s slender fingers were promptly enveloped by a sinewy grip, and the pair were abruptly gone from the Holy Hill.

-*-

The world came back into existence as an unfamiliar place. It felt like Jamir, through the wide empty window-spaces it looked like Jamir; but Mu was certain he’d never seen this empty, soul-chilling tower before in his admittedly short life so far.

So, where were they?

“Master – Holy Father – if I may ask …?”

He stopped, blinking with confusion. Sanctuary’s master was pulling his ancient helm free with one hand, removing the golden chains around his neck with the other, shrugging out of the white velvet robes of his office … and then, before the puzzled Aries Saint, in the plain clothing of any Sanctuary guardsman, the Holy Father gave shook himself and stretched. Coils of hair framed the ancient face, the wide almond eyes, the twin telltale marks of one of Mu’s own people; and though his flesh be like aged parchment, there was no lack of power in the Holy Father’s solid frame.

A soft chuckle cut through Mu’s stunned wonder, as a hand reached down to ruffle his hair.

“Here, for now, Mu, call me Shion. This is our craft as much as or even more than Hers – and I’m tired of formal anonymity and I’ll take whatever respite I can find.
“Saga and Aioros should have their instructions by now; let’s find us something to occupy our time for a bit, shall we?”

“Of course, Hol- Shion. We’re here because of the Cloth forging, aren’t we? Because that task is going to be mine, because I succeeded as the Aries Saint …”

Another ruffle.

“Actually, Mu, it’s because of who you are more than it is your Cloth. We of Jamir are the only ones who know this craft, our gift to Athene …
“Come here, let me show you.”

Shion was in motion before the echo of his words had had time for fade, striding towards an archway that had not been there a heartbeat before. Wide-eyed, Mu followed him into what was surely the Forge itself – a vast shallow bowl of glowing embers, ringed with anvil-shapes of strange and unknown make, and smaller crucibles that burned with promises. All around them, ringing the Forge and warmed by its dull light, were billets of gleaming golden orichalc stacked and ready, alongside ingots of lesser metals to temper those Clothes that required such. There were tongs, and hammers, and glittering chisels, and polishing leathers …

… But, as entrancing as the dragon’s hoard of metals could be, something else drew Mu’s attention like lodestone. A second, smaller chamber, its contents coolly glittering in heaped masses of colourless fire; a storage room filled with … sand? No. No sand gleamed like powered diamond, glistening blue-white like uncountable tiny stars as Mu plunged a hand into the cool, electrifying grains, ran the motes through his fingers, watched them trickle like water, felt the thrumming of power like a heartbeat.

Galaxies. It’s like uncountable galaxies of life were all gathered up into this one little room.

: That’s because, my little smith-to-be, what you’re handling is of the stars themselves. True stardust, that which the very universe condenses from us all. :

Shion’s shadow fell over his student, casting the shining stuff into a darker, pewter gleaming. Fascinated, Mu did not look up.

“And, we work with this …?”

“We do indeed.”

And the Holy Father fairly purred with pleased laughter.

“That’s the telling difference between we Saints and all the other Holy Orders; only we have the knack, and don’t intend to share it. We’re bound to the stars, and we make the stuff of stars part of ourselves.
“Now, then, scoot out of the way a little and let me gather some of this, because the best means to teach is to show. And today, little Ram, you forge your own smith’s tools.
“Follow me, see what I do, and then – if you’ve truly seen – it’s your turn.”

-*-

The components involved seemed rather basic, once the Forge had been primed; two billets of orichalc and a pyxis piled high with precious stardust, a knife, a pair of tongs and a small smith’s hammer suited for lighter work. Mu was surprised, and perhaps a little disappointed, by the Spartan preparations, but said nothing as Shion twisted his hair up and out of the way, grasped one billet in the tongs to heat in a crucible …

… lifted the blade with his free hand, and gashed his forearm to the bone. Blood streamed crimson down the drawn flesh, sizzled over the coals, slicked the glowing orichalc a lurid scarlet as Shion picked up the hammer and began to work as if he were doing anything but bleeding freely across the Forge’s face.

“Master Shion –!!”

: No, Mu, calm yourself. :

Shion’s tone was serene, with no trace of pain or distress.

: Calm down, and watch me. :

The pyxis rose, borne on unseen hands as Shion worked the bloodied orichalc into shape, and scattered the motes of starry soul-stuff across the blood-hot metal.

Under the Holy Father’s ancient hands, a miracle blossomed to life.

The essence of the universe, the golden metal and Shion’s own life pooled together, merging, becoming a new life, a new spirit – the sparkling form he was hammering into existence was alive, as all things were alive, and Mu was struck with wonder.

“Ma- Shion? I … see it – and with what I’ll give to my own tools, I’ll give others life. I’ll bring life back to wounded Cloths, not broken but wounded –“

: Yes. And there’s always a sacrifice, whether your own or another’s, a sacrifice not to be taken lightly. :

There was a pause in Shion’s rhythm, the slightest hesitation in the hammer’s fall.

: Are you afraid of this? Do you wish to step away? :

Strong small arms clamped around Shion’s waist; a stubborn hand grasped at the hammer’s hilt. He could feel the awe, and the determination, radiating through the boy’s flaring cosmo.

“Show me the shapes I’m going to need. I’ll start as soon as you move away.
“This isn’t a lesson, Master, it’s a gift –!”

Shion felt the spark take hold, truly take hold, in his successor’s soul, after all the long and painful years of waiting, and smiled to himself.

Now they would truly be ready for Her presence. It was all he could have asked for.