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Challenge: A Blacksmith's Hands
November 5 , 2003

By Sylvia
November 6, 2003

~ Rough Trade ~

Sparks flew as the heavy hammer hit hot metal. A hiss of steam temporarily blinded the blacksmith as he plunged the glowing sword into cold water.

Will laid aside his work for the day, and dreamed about going home to his bride. Three weeks married and still in harmony with one another.

Washing the grime from his hands, he inspected the callused palms and fingers carefully. There was no denying his occupation. And yet Elizabeth had not complained at his rough touch on her delicate skin, in fact.

He smiled to himself, there were advantages to having a blacksmith's hands.

By Eledhwen
November 6, 2003

~ Safety ~

He slides the ring on to her finger and keeps hold of her hand. The metal feels cool against her skin; his hand comfortingly large and strong. She smiles at him. He squeezes, tightening the grasp, and mouths, “I love you,” before they turn back to the priest.

Later, when all the words have been said, the church register signed, he leads her out into the bright Caribbean sunlight. He is still holding her hand, calloused fingers entwined with hers. The link makes her feel safe, secure in the hands of her blacksmith – she knows he will never let go.

By Erinrua
November 7, 2003

~ Untitled ~

A blacksmith's hands …yet these are not what a pirate would expect. Strength and sureness, aye, precise blows of hammer, sure rasp of file, deft movements to temper a keen, bright edge to new steel. That is a craftsman's gift and as it should be. But this - oh this deadly dance of blade on blade and eyes staring back hot as the forge; very interesting. A serpent's grace, an adder's strike, all here in the steel in a blacksmith's hands. A man could learn to love that - if it wasn't trying to kill him.

By Spacepirate
November 7, 2003

~ Touched ~

Elizabeth jerked awake, shocked, still feeling his hands on her skin. Guiltily, she turned to her sleeping husband. This was what she wanted—wasn’t it?

Why, then, did she dream of hands saving her from tropical waters; slicing open her too-tight corset; pulling chains closer to her throat; draping around her as she buckled his sword belt; grasping her shoulder as they sat by the fire during a rum-soaked night...be-ringed hands, making her crave things she’d never before imagined?

Her body ached for hands roughened by rope and wood, not fire and metal. Not a blacksmith’s hands, but a pirate’s.

By Hereswith
November 9, 2003

~ Untitled ~

His hands were not a blacksmith's hands, made rough by honest work. Fire had not blistered them, the hammer had not marked them and they could not shape metal into a thing of beauty and of grace.

She had dreamed of fingers smudged with soot, of skin hardened by steel. A blacksmith's hands, so strong and sure, that would hold fast and always keep her safe. His hands were not a blacksmith's hands. Yet she lay awake, at night, renembering the weight and feel of them upon her. And if she held her breath, she could almost hear the sea.

By EstelWolfe
November 9, 2003

~ A Blacksmith's Hands ~

"Would you truly have only a simple blacksmith's hands upon you for the rest of your natural life?"

He asked me that once. There was no malice in the question, only true concern for my future.

I wish I could say I didn't hesitate.

I did. For a moment, I hesitated.

Since then I have felt those blacksmith's calloused hands every day.

I have seen them work miracles.

I have watched them take cold steel and give it life, first in flame, then in graceful movement.

I have watched them caress a child's tears away, bringing a smile in their place.

I have watched them soothe a good man lost in a dark past, bringing him some semblance of peace.

I have felt them on me, everywhere, celebrating life with everything from the gentlest strokes to the heights of passion.

And I have not regretted my choice.

By Cecilia
November 10, 2003

~ A Blacksmith's Hands ~

Not that I would usually have opportunity to mingle with heroes in me line of work, but fortunes can be a funny thing. He’s not the noble knight on horseback in shining armor, or the pious priest with comforting words from the good book.

This hero who despite all obstacles never lost his faith. His armor is his reserve and his love and his deepest devotion. His comforting words come from his heart, the truth incarnate. He wields selflessness with the same skill that he wields his hammer. Profound loyalty and friendship found in something as simple as a blacksmith’s hands, even to this weasley old pirate.

Funny old world, in’innit?

~.~

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