Vision, Might, and Guile

"Pound it," came the Warbringer's voice, and Selina did as bidden.

This was hardly her forté. But Maenya insisted there was only one right way to do this. The hammer was so heavy, but she embraced the pain. It was right. This was an instrument of pain. Much would be needed in its forging.

For her first workpiece at the forge, she couldn't have chosen a worse metal. Byeshk, the amethyst-colored alloy unique to Droaamish mountains of the same name, was notoriously hard to work, resistant to heat and force in ways that would exhaust most mortal blacksmiths.

Granted, most of the actual pounding had been done by Maenya, though not, as she might have intuited, as some favor to her. The hammer work was done by the assistant, while the master held the tongs, moving the piece into the right position. The assistant need only remain steady and predictable with the hammer--the master's movements must be subtle and practiced.

Which, of course, Selina's werent. How could they be? Much as she wished it were so, this wasn't her first time at this art, but she'd been dreadful at it in the past, and certainly hadn't put in a fraction of the time to become a journeyman, ably forging adequate horseshoes, let alone the mastery this piece demanded. It seemed hopeless.

That, too, goes in there, she thought, and brought the hammer down. For this phase, she must wield the hammer, although she understood that was a bit of an exception. Runecarving usually went the same way as forging, but the detail work would wait until later. For now, she must beat the foundation of the rune into the metal, pounding it with all her rage, all her loss and grief, all her doubts and misgivings. It was all going into the piece, for it was pregnant with purpose.

She paused, reflecting on the words in her thoughts. No time for that now, she chided, but too late. With the thought came a fresh wave of grief, a wound that had just barely started to stem the tide of blood, ripped open to spill anew. And she let it pour, along with her tears. She didn't writhe in her agony, she breathed it in, and expelled it out again, hot, inflamed, intensified. Blood, sweat, and tears, all into the blade.

This weapon would be hers, in truth. Nothing borrowed, and nothing blue for this maiden. The spoon had done its work, but it wasn't forged for this purpose. This was to be her instrument of vengeance, against a world that dared to nurture such hope, dared to be fertile enough to blossom such love, only to cruelly rip it from her. Some force beyond herself, greater than her mothers, but still within her reach. Some cosmic judge, sitting above her, thinking himself immune.

Think again, she spat at him, promising vengeance.

The lesson had been forged into her countless times as she'd grown, just as she beat this hammer. "Vision," she would say, and recite its meaning. Not mere senses, nor insight, nor divination, but all of it, together. The ability to foresee, and to envision, and to reconcile the two. A witch may know her fate, but must still be willing to hold onto a vision of the future, one worth striving for. Dream would have been a better word, she mused, but I guess I know why they didn't use it.

Clutch. Stretch. Swing. Pound. Clang. Lift. Repeat.

"Might," she would say, its meaning clear, at least to her at the time. She never say why her Nina would stress the physicality so much. Sure, endurance, health, physical vitality was essential to witchcraft, but not literal strength. She hated the weight training, the necessity to always push herself to the breaking point. She'd not kept it up since moving out, and honestly didn't miss the bulk. Her figure would've looked so strange on the screen. Plus, Maenya never would have let her eat all those Aundairan pastries and drink all that wine.

But here, now, her body remember. Muscle may atrophy, but it remembers the strength once built, and rebuilds faster when called upon. Her body remembered the toil, the long hours of exertion, and almost seemed to thank her for recalling all that had been labored to build. Each swing seemed easier than the last, even if the pain and weariness grew ever louder. She didn't want to rest. Rest means sleep, and she wasn't sure she ever wanted to sleep again.

She stunned herself with her own thoughts. What a strange thing to say after her ordeal. But in the moment, it made sense. She could dream now. And her heart yearned for one dream above all others. But she didn't feel ready. She wasn't accustomed to experiencing things that weren't real. Outside the occasional seance or divination, she'd never spoken to the dead, never took tea with gods, never took flight on wings of fancy in some imaginary land. Dreaming was new, and terrifying. What awaited her there was a confirmation of all she lost.

In this moment, she couldn't possibly lose herself. Though her mind pulled savagely at her soul, trying to drag her into grief, despair, anger, rage, any sort of distraction, each deafening clang of the hammer, each wail of protest from her battered joints and strained muscles, each labored breath, each cold bead of sweat that gathered on her chin, or nose, or eyebrows, that she didn't have time to wipe away...her body was louder than her thoughts, and forced her into the present, into her reality, away from fantasy and nonsense. In the present, she could act, she could Do, she could change her Fate.

And that, it seemed, was Might. She'd never lift what Maenya could, never tear a man's head from his spine in battle (well, not by hand, but the idea had appeal), but in this moment, she was as mighty as she.

And thus, Guile.

Truly, that thought gave her pause, but as luck would have it, she'd struck enough, and Maenya took the lapse as her giving up the piece for judgment. The Warbringer nodded in approval. "Rough, but serviceable. Much is yet to be done." She took on the minor toil of quenching the piece, and Selina was happy to take a break, collapsing onto a stool, a humble thing of simple wood that she'd have never imagined could offer such comfort.

When it came out, it no longer glowed, and it was worse for it. The glow made it shiny, at least. The purple had dulled with clumsy handling, the edges were a mess, the rune foundation wasn't even straight. Selina despaired. And so shall be my dreams, she whinged to herself.

"It's honest," Maenya confided, and Selina heard only pity. But the witch's voice didn't waver, her regard held no disapproval. She was wise as well as strong, and heard the unvoiced thoughts. "A thing need not be beautiful to be strong."

Well that's not fair, she began, but even she didn't like where her thoughts led her. Maenya wasn't vain, she had every power of shapeshifting a witch could have. If anything, Selina was overly concerned with her visage, hiding so much from the world. Out of fear? Of what?

But she knew, and instantly didn't like the answer. She changed herself not for adoration or regard, but to hide her strength. To put enemies into a state of overconfidence, to draw out their own weakness to use it against him. Just like mommy dearest, she chided herself. Katra hadn't really told her to do so outright, she was just emulating what she'd always known had worked so well. And before, she didn't feel like there was anything wrong with it--if anything, she was proud to achieve what her mother was so famous for. She'd been, as cliche as it seemed, trying to become her, without even realizing it.

And here, beside her, offering comfort and strength in her time of need, was her Nina, her most earnest teacher. She'd always lamented having so much time with her; mother's lessons were more precious, they were about magic, and manipulation, and politics, and being special. Nina made you work, and scrub, and hammer, and fight. Never any magic, never diplomacy or wordplay, never anything she was best at, what she was made for.

Her eyes unfocused, her mind lost in that thought. I was so sure what I was made for... she mused, looking at the purple blur of the future blade. I wanted to be her dagger, her athame. And I dared to...dream...of more.

The ache in her muscles told the story. She was her now. She stood at the forge. The metal was ready to be shaped, and put to its purpose. It was true what Katra had said. This blade didn't ask to be forged, and couldn't help the circumstances of its creation. Selina was being selfish, thinking only of what she would do with this tool. Would it someday resent her for it?

The idea was as absurd as the metaphor.

She couldn't really hate her. It was a fantasy. It was just as the crone had envisioned: this was inevitable. Fate was pounding her into shape, for some purpose, just as her mother had done to her, just as she was doing to this hunk of ugly steel.

And so, to my daughter? Or son? What right do I have to give them life? To choose for them a mother like me? To grow up without a father, but to live forever in his shadow? I'm choosing the next queen or king of Karrnath. Is one realm not enough? Now I control the fate of two?

Guile was the weaving of words, the prediction of actions, the play, and counterplay, and counter-counterplay, ad infinitum. But it was more than that. The real difference wasn't deception, or persuasion, or diplomacy.

It was the ability to live with yourself afterward.

To make the choice, knowing others will resent it. To accept the consequences, knowing the cost, and paying it, because you know the reward. It is not to overlook those who are wronged by the choice, those whose was taken from them, but to remember them, and honor them by acknowledging them. Even as you stay true.

Vision, to know the path.

Might, to make it so.

Guile, to accept the consequences.

Well, fitting then. I guess I shouldn't feel guilty.

And truth, she didn't. Not guilt, anyway. She just felt sympathy, as she ought to. And she knew, in some corner of her witchy mind, that the wheel would come around again, and some day she'd be on the receiving end. And so does the wheel spin the threads of fate.

"Do you," she found herself asking, and was terrified to speak the words. But a Warchief does as she must. Maenya would prefer the honesty. Still, mayhap there was a better approach. "Have I wronged you, Nina?"

Now that caught her off guard. Maenya had been sitting on her stool, enjoying a moment's reprieve, no doubt plotting out the remaining work efficiently and methodically, just as she was thinking about battles and travails to come. She looked a bit worried, then confused, and looked to her niece for clarification.

"This may sound strange, but...I was only thinking of her. Of what ought to be, of what must be. I didn't think of how it would affect you."

Her aunt returned, almost reflexively, "don't get too big a head on those shoulders yet, little one. You hardly have to look out for my feelings. It won't be the first time for us, and it isn't like there are no ways to get in touch." She used levity as a shield--that was nothing new--but she misunderstood.

"I hardly consider myself capable of hurting your feelings, Nina," she offered with a laugh and a playful slap against her shoulder, that turned into an offer reassurance. "I only thought that...by holding you innocent, I might have, in a way, undermined your authority. Your agency."

Maenya's brow furrowed, as if she was worried she was being beguiled, and wanted no part of it. Selina longed to reassure her, and for the first time, she didn't have to walk on eggshells so as to avoid offending the other one. "She's always treated you that way. You're strong, but you never make the final call. If there's a secret, she keeps you in the dark, for 'your own good'. If she crosses the line, she makes sure you don't have to, to keep your hands clean. And I don't doubt she means well, but...godddess' sake, you're a Queen! You're a force of majesty! Not just a little sister!"

Maybe she was becoming her mother. Her insight pierced a veil even her aunt seemed unwilling to glance behind. But it all made perfect sense. They were of an age, but Katra was unquestionably greater. Her little sister may have been a hundred feet tall for all it mattered. Win a thousand battles, crush a million enemies, it mattered not. Selina was as guilty as anyone, seeing the mystique and majesty of one, and putting the other in her right place. But it wasn't just the naivety of a child--it was deliberate, intentional. A pattern that itself took root in childlike naivety, but had continued for however many centuries.

"I cannot stress this enough, Maenya. You've shed more blood, sweat, and tears for this realm than anyone could ask for. Your courage and ardor and beyond reproach, and your honor is impeccable. I do not blame you for anything that happened to me. And I'm so incredibly grateful for everything you've taught me." Her tears streamed, but she was joyful. She'd always loved her aunt, in her way, but barriers were crashing down, a lifetime of perspective twisted against her. Her heart warmed and grew, in a way she hadn't dared hope it ever could again.

And Nina was shaking her head, not to disagree, but to forfend the whole conversation. Her own eyes watered, and her every urge told her to distance herself, to put up walls, to fall into her place. "No," she breathed, trying to mean it. "Don't say it."

"It's not your fault," Selina said, and the dam burst. Maenya's eyes slammed shut, but it was for naught. She took the Warbringer in her arms, the Might of Droaam, and offered her love, compassion, and for the first time, equality. "You deserved a choice."

"No, no, I need her, I need them both," she cried, a mantra beaten into her by hammers of doubt, fired by coals of shame, quenched in the obvious superiority of her elders.

"You don't. You deserve their love, and their companionship, and they will always be your sisters. But you are enough. You are wise, you are clever, and you're strong." She took her powerful jaw in her worn, bruised hand, and lifted her face up.

Said the Warchief, "you are Vision, Might, and Guile."

When words were next spoken, the piece had cooled, safe to touch. It had lost all fire, and with its last shine, it was truly a dull piece of work. But it remained potent; with time, effort, and intent, it would yet take an edge, and have a purpose. It must be wielded with intent, and responsibility, but it must be trusted to fulfill its duty, and to stand on its own.

Her tears mostly dry, her skin cool, and her muscle and bone well and truly done with today's ordeal, Selina was more leaning on her Nina than embracing her, but it was well and good. She accepted her strength and love, and was reciprocated.

"I hope you're not going to ask me to take my job back," Maenya jested, and they both laughed, breaking the silence at last. "I'm not kidding about that vacation!"

They went through the motions of gathering up the work and returning the forge to a reasonable state. Selina tried--and failed--to pick up the hammer, wondering how she'd even swung it a single time. Maenya took the hilt without a word, replacing the rool in its right place, without judgment or meaning.

"Maenya, she of Vision, Might, and Guile," she said with only a hint of levity, if only for her Nina's sake. "I do thee charge, upon thine honour."

The soldier stood straight, perhaps apprehensive of what might come next, but her shoulders stood ready to bear the burden. Well, and truly, by her strength alone, with her own blood on the line.

"This realm is vast, and our needs great. Matters may drive me from Great Crag, to the corners of the realm, to foreign lands, or even beyond this world. And yet, there must always be a guiding hand for our people."

Selina grasped the blade--half-made and ill-formed though it may be--and held it ready.

"And so our lands demand such a Hand. Not just a general, but a builder, a speaker, and a judge, when necessary. By the powers invested in me by the Warlords of Droaam, and by the honor of my sacred bloodline, I thee name: Hand of the Warchief, Guardian of the Realm."