Mercy Run ('Blade' entry)
Mar. 5th, 2017 08:21 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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who_contestTitle: Mercy Run
Rating: PG for descriptions of injury
Genre: General
Author:
templeremus
Word Count: 505
Characters: The Gunslinger
Summary: When the Doctor has flown away, it falls to others to keep the peace. Spoilers for A Town Called Mercy.
Mercy's heart is little altered, even now. A survivor of the civil war could walk down the main street and recognise every building by location, if not by outline. The church has been rebuilt on its original site. The blacksmith's yard has belonged to the same family since its foundation. Even in a land of second chances, people still look for things that anchor them to the past. After all, the act of mercy means nothing without the memory of what came before.
One day in every year, the blacksmith rises early and heads out into the mountains. The quickest path up the ridge is too steep for a horse to manage, so the journey is always on foot. At the summit he drops his tool-bag and pauses to recover, breath clouding the night air, the town reduced to a smoky haze in the valley below.
The light from the Marshal's eye belongs to another world altogether, cold and brilliant as a star. Travellers who pass through on the cattle road north sometimes glimpse it, but by and large people keep their distance. The blacksmith's may be the only face that the Marshal has seen up close for months, and the knowledge of this adds a formality to their encounters.
While the tool-bag is unpacked, the Marshal removes his cloak. His joints make a crunching sound as he kneels, like rusted cogs turning over. Then he spreads both arms wide, the way a prisoner does when put into the stocks, and nods: I am ready.
They don't talk much. The din of the smithy makes a man uncommunicative by nature - and besides, this is work that requires absolute attention. Every rivet is checked and, if necessary, tightened. The blades of the Marshal's spine are scraped clean. In places metal and bone have been welded together so precisely that it is hard to distinguish between the two. Elsewhere the damage is obvious, the skin on the face and arms the same blistered texture as the mountainside.
A casual observer might look on these scars as evidence of a botched job. The blacksmith knows otherwise. Cowboys brand their cattle for the same reason; disfiguring a creature makes it somebody's property.
The man responsible (if you could call him a man) died years back. These days Mercy has its own electricity, and there is talk of extending the railroad to within an hour's ride of the town. Children who would once have played at war build imaginary stations in the schoolyard. For now, they can afford to trust that there are angels watching over them. That is the miracle of peace.
Back at his work bench, the blacksmith wipes the sweat and dirt from his tools. There are customers waiting, and the day is well-advanced. The mountains shimmer in the heat.
Impossible that anyone could survive up there, say those who pass through on the cattle road. They stay long enough to get their horses reshod, and think the blacksmith a fool for laughing at them.
Rating: PG for descriptions of injury
Genre: General
Author:
templeremusWord Count: 505
Characters: The Gunslinger
Summary: When the Doctor has flown away, it falls to others to keep the peace. Spoilers for A Town Called Mercy.
Mercy's heart is little altered, even now. A survivor of the civil war could walk down the main street and recognise every building by location, if not by outline. The church has been rebuilt on its original site. The blacksmith's yard has belonged to the same family since its foundation. Even in a land of second chances, people still look for things that anchor them to the past. After all, the act of mercy means nothing without the memory of what came before.
One day in every year, the blacksmith rises early and heads out into the mountains. The quickest path up the ridge is too steep for a horse to manage, so the journey is always on foot. At the summit he drops his tool-bag and pauses to recover, breath clouding the night air, the town reduced to a smoky haze in the valley below.
The light from the Marshal's eye belongs to another world altogether, cold and brilliant as a star. Travellers who pass through on the cattle road north sometimes glimpse it, but by and large people keep their distance. The blacksmith's may be the only face that the Marshal has seen up close for months, and the knowledge of this adds a formality to their encounters.
While the tool-bag is unpacked, the Marshal removes his cloak. His joints make a crunching sound as he kneels, like rusted cogs turning over. Then he spreads both arms wide, the way a prisoner does when put into the stocks, and nods: I am ready.
They don't talk much. The din of the smithy makes a man uncommunicative by nature - and besides, this is work that requires absolute attention. Every rivet is checked and, if necessary, tightened. The blades of the Marshal's spine are scraped clean. In places metal and bone have been welded together so precisely that it is hard to distinguish between the two. Elsewhere the damage is obvious, the skin on the face and arms the same blistered texture as the mountainside.
A casual observer might look on these scars as evidence of a botched job. The blacksmith knows otherwise. Cowboys brand their cattle for the same reason; disfiguring a creature makes it somebody's property.
The man responsible (if you could call him a man) died years back. These days Mercy has its own electricity, and there is talk of extending the railroad to within an hour's ride of the town. Children who would once have played at war build imaginary stations in the schoolyard. For now, they can afford to trust that there are angels watching over them. That is the miracle of peace.
Back at his work bench, the blacksmith wipes the sweat and dirt from his tools. There are customers waiting, and the day is well-advanced. The mountains shimmer in the heat.
Impossible that anyone could survive up there, say those who pass through on the cattle road. They stay long enough to get their horses reshod, and think the blacksmith a fool for laughing at them.
