Sole of a Warrior

Between the North and Celtic Seas, across glorious ranges of purple rocks and green and yellow grasses, on a sun-drenched day in early Autumn, two young warriors lay depleted from a long afternoon of training. 

Arlonne, the taller, darker, and older of the two, lay in an agitated state, propped up on one elbow and worrying the crinkled petals of a wood anemone between his fingers. His companion, Fehn, knew no such anxiety and languished against the mossy bark of a massive oak.

“Arlonne, we’re of age. This is what we were built for. This is what we’re meant for.”

“Aye, I know it.”

“Our muscles are strong and we’ve trained for ages. We’re ready.”

“Aye, I know it,” Arlonne sighed.

“So, then,” said Fehn, “What’s the matter? Why do you question it? This is our destiny, like our fathers, and like-”

“-their fathers before them. Aye, I know it.”

“You don’t want it.”

“I don’t.”

It was true that both Fehn and Arlonne’s fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers had all been warriors, but didn’t Ravensborough have enough of them? After all, every boy in town from ten years onward was required to train in combat.

“Alright, then. So, what’s caught you ‘round the ankle, old friend?” Fehn settled further into the trunk and swept his arm in front of him in a grand gesture. “What wouldst thou rather be doing?”

“I suppose Faerowyn would prefer a dragon slayer,” Arlonne mused, pulling the last petals from the decimated flower.

“If she be of sound mind and reason, I’d say she would. But you didn’t answer my question, O Ponderous One.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Aye, I probably will,” Fehn agreed. “Tell me anyway.”

“I … wish to cobble shoes.”

Arlonne glanced quickly at his friend, whose face had grown quite still, but instead of laughing lines around his eyes, he saw confusion.

“Beg pardon?” he said eventually. “Did my best friend, my brother for all intents and purposes, just admit to me that he would rather make shoes than be a fierce dragon warrior?”

Arlonne sat up at last and settled against the tree, too. “Aye, he did.”

Fehn merely looked disgruntled.

“Out with it,” said Arlonne.

“I was hoping for a bit of a chuckle after such a long day. Perhaps I will find it more humorous later.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“A bit. Your father will be, too.”

“Well, then.”

“Aye, well, then.”

*   *   *

Faerowyn sat brushing her dark, silky hair by the stream, her legs submerged just below the knee in the water. She looked so serene in the gentle light that filtered through the lace canopy of foliage above her, and Arlonne knew that he shouldn’t be watching her, but in his defense, she was fully clothed. The bottom of her petticoats were partially soaked from the current, but she seemed not to notice or care.

Arlonne sighed quietly and turned his back on Faerowyn, sitting against a tree and staring up at the green canopy. He let the song of the birds and river lull him into his frequent daydream of a little house built along the water, where he could hear its babble in his workshop, amid all of the sounds of a cobbler’s tools. Perhaps when the weather was nice, he would venture to neighboring towns and set up a rolling shop, making shoes for those who needed them. He could almost smell the leather and the dust settling around his cart.

While initially, Arlonne shared in the excitement surrounding warriorhood that the other boys had, he had eventually lost interest. Still, he did what was expected of him, training hard and long for a battle he did not care about. Slaying dragons seemed so wooden-headed, anyway. Long gone were the days of dragon raids—they rarely bothered the village, so why should the village bother them? In Arlonne’s opinion, it was all for show, and he had no desire to partake if it meant shrinking into a wisened old man before finally pursuing his dream.

On the other hand, Arlonne had been desperately in love with Faerowyn since she had come to town many years before. She was the daughter of a local dignitary, always surrounded by guards on her horse, and schooled at home. Over the years, however, Arlonne occasionally found himself taking detours in order to “accidentally” end up in the same place that she happened to be, although he never revealed himself. Undoubtedly, she would prefer a dragon slayer.

Arlonne stretched his legs out in front of him, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t alone, and winced as a twig snapped. He froze and shut his eyes, praying that Faerowyn hadn’t heard him. Alas, he heard her gasp and his eyes snapped open again. He peered around the tree trunk to see her scrambling at the bank, gathering her things. 

Then she looked up and he was caught.

Arlonne watched the blood drain from Faerowyn’s face before the color surged back in angry, red blotches.

“What. Are. You. Doing here,” she hissed through her teeth, her face screwed up like an animal ready to pounce.

“I wasn’t spying on you. I was-”

As Arlonne struggled to come up with an excuse, his gaze fell upon her feet, one of which appeared to be turned backward. His eyes bulged.

“Faerowyn, your ankle,” he said, wondering vaguely if he might faint. “How long has it been like that? Let me help you.”

Faerowyn dropped quickly to her knees, arranging her skirts to cover her feet behind her.

“Get. Out, Arlonne Thaime. GET OUT!” she screeched, her hair falling around her face like a banshee. “And if you EVER tell anyone what you saw-”

“I didn’t see anything, I swear, I was only trying to hel-”

“OUT!” 

The howl followed Arlonne out of the woods, all the way home, and permeated his thoughts that night, warding off sleep. He tossed and turned, his stomach roiling at the thought of Faerowyn’s poor, mangled ankle. She must have twisted it when he frightened her—it hadn’t even had time to bruise yet. And yet, she hadn’t even winced …

*   *   *

The next day at training, Arlonne was nearly useless. He dropped his weapons, missed cues from the drill instructor, and might as well have been growing turnips in his ears, for all the good they did him.

“We’re riding out in a fortnight—what are you thinking?” said Fehn, when they broke for the noon meal. “You’re going to get kicked out before we set off.”

“I know, I can’t focus,” Arlonne groaned.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I ran into Faerowyn yesterday in the forest.”

“Spying again, eh?”

“I don’t spy, you know that. I turn away and then it just feels like we’re in the same … space.”

“Spare me—I’d like to get down my lunch,” said Fehn, pretending to gag.

“Anyway, she hurt herself and wouldn’t let me help. Only shouted at me until I left.”

“She hurt herself? How?”

“Will you deadweights hurry it up—it’s your turn to serve the slop,” a superior called from several hundred feet ahead. "Get up there before I give you labor instead of lunch, eh?”

There was no more time for talk and by the time Arlonne and Fehn finished afternoon training, they were both too tired to continue or remember their earlier conversation—that is, until Arlonne saw Faerowyn riding by on her way home. She rode past him without so much as a polite nod, hair streaming out behind her, and Arlonne followed blindly, his feet nearly numb but leading him ever onward.

He followed her a considerable way as the sun sank below the horizon, hoping she would turn to speak to him, when an adder slithered into her horse’s path. Any warning that Arlonne uttered was swallowed by a wild whiney from Faerowyn’s horse as he spooked, throwing her from his back and galloping away.

The snake was still near where Faerowyn was sprawled in the middle of the road, and Arlonne rushed towards it, blade unsheathed. At the last moment, he changed his mind and merely jumped at the snake, which slithered back into the bushes.

“Just a grass snake,” he muttered.

He had at least expected a “thank you” as he held out a hand to help Faerowyn up, but the hatred in her face almost made him step back again. 

“C’mon, I’ll help you find your horse,” he said anyway.

“I'm sure he’s made it home by now. He never strays far and that was the way we were-” She stopped, undoubtedly reluctant to reveal her planned destination. “Why do you follow me?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Arlonne. 

“You do.”

Arlonne sighed. “Aye, I do.”

“It’s not a recent thing, either. You’ve done it since we were children.” Arlonne felt hot blood flood his face. “Why?” said Faerowyn again.

“I … care for you,” said Arlonne. “Ever since we were children. I’ve not meant to spy on you. I feel better when you’re near.”

“Hm.”

“I didn’t know that you knew.”

“Hm.”

“Why haven’t you said something before now?” Arlonne pressed.

Faerowyn sighed, then looked up into his eyes. Hers had turned glassy and round. “I suppose I … feel better when you’re near.”

Arlonne barely dared to draw breath. A gentle breeze caught a strand of Faerowyn’s hair against his chest and he brushed it with his fingertips. He twirled it around a finger lightly, almost absently, before realizing what he was doing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“That’s okay,” said Faerowyn quickly. “Would you … Arlonne, would you care to walk me home?”

Arlonne felt a thrill as she said his name. He hadn’t preferred the version where it had been shouted at him, especially considering her tone. But this tone was different. Gentle.

“I would be … delirious,” said Arlonne. 

He could feel blood rushing to his face, but Faerowyn smiled almost shyly and took his arm. She stumbled slightly as they began to walk and reached down to move something in her path. Arlonne felt her freeze beside him.

“What is it?” he said at once, concerned that he had misidentified the non-venomous snake before. 

“No, don’t-”

Arlonne stared at the object he had retrieved from the road and felt his blood run cold. It was a foot—a human foot. He looked at Faerowyn and was startled to see tears pouring down her face.

“P-please,” she begged. “Please just give it to me.”

Arlonne complied, his mind strangely blank, but as he let it pass through his fingers, he dimly registered that there was no blood on the foot, although it was not connected to a body. Instead, the appendage seemed to be made of an inflexible material, cold and smooth like stone, but lighter. There must have been a hole in the ankle, because Faerowyn seemed to be attempting to step into it.

“Let me- why don’t we sit down and you can put that back on?” he said, the words buzzing oddly in his head.

Back on. “Put that back on,” he had said. Like it was normal.

Arlonne came back to himself sharply as Faerowyn hobbled to a rock and let out a little sob as she sat. She hiked one side of her skirts up, and then he saw it: transitioning smoothly from her ankle, where there should have been a living replica of the strange, artificial foot, was a hoof. 

“What, erm, how long have-” Arlonne struggled with coherent thoughts or sentences.

“It’s a curse. We’ve not found the counter,” Faerowyn whispered, her voice shaking. “You’re disgusted, I know. But please don’t tell anyone, Arlonne, you have no idea what we went through in the last town.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My father is a very powerful man. He has many enemies.”

“But what happened in the last town?”

Faerowyn shuddered. “‘And he with cloven hooves that walks upright, walks also in shadow with the Devil,’” she said in a strangely monotone voice, as though reciting a learned poem for school.

Arlonne felt sick.

“If word gets out, we won’t be able to stay,” said Faerowyn. “We’ll be driven away again, please …” She stood quickly. “Don’t follow me.”

For once, Arlonne obeyed.

*   *   *

Sleep mostly alluded Arlonne again that night, as more than once, he awoke thrashing in his bed sheets and drenched in sweat. In his first nightmare, he was slowly strangled by willow branches as Faerowyn watched solemnly and magnificent horns pushed out of the top of her head to curl elegantly around her ears. In the second dream, Arlonne ran for his life while Faerowyn’s father and a small army thundered after him on horseback, shooting flaming arrows past him until one caught him square in the back and set him alight.

When finally, he could take no more, Arlonne untangled himself from his sheets and set off feverishly toward the path he had taken that afternoon, following Faerowyn. He searched the path and the clearing where she had stopped to put her foot back on by lantern light, scouring the earth for hoof prints. At last, he found one next to a not-quite-natural human print. As he stared, the candle in his lantern stuttered and wax dripped to the bottom, giving him an idea. He opened the glass door and removed the candle from its spindle, then carefully dripped wax into the hoof print. 

Arlonne continued to pour patiently until the candle was nearly burned out, but the action had calmed him somehow. By what little light he had left, he wove strands of wild grass into a makeshift basket and dug carefully around the wax, then deposited the earth and wax into the basket. With luck, the basket and earth would keep his body heat from melting the wax on the way home.  

*   *   *

By morning, Arlonne was slumped at the small desk in his room, surrounded by strips of leather and cord, various springs, and leftover wedges and strips of maple. His hammer, awl, and knife were buried somewhere in the chaos and he could smell boot polish strongly enough that he was sure he had smeared it across his face, but as he held up his handiwork, he found that he was finally satisfied. He glanced at the sun from his window and knew he barely had time to make it to training.

Arlonne made it to Faerowyn’s home just as the sun crested the hill upon which it sat and knocked at the back door, hoping she would answer. At once, he saw her large, frightened eyes peering through the curtain as she drew it back. The doorknob twisted and she pulled the door open a fraction. 

“What do you want?” she asked faintly. She looked very pale, as though she hadn’t slept, either.

“This is for you. I must leave,” said Arlonne. He pushed a box tied with twine into her arms, and when she only looked more frightened, he smiled, hoping to reassure her. “It’s nothing troublesome,” he promised. “I must go.”

*   *   *

On the morning of his unit’s departure, Arlonne was sure he couldn’t feel lower if he was in the ground. His parents standing proudly by the dock to send him off did nothing to ease the acid in his stomach. It had been two weeks since he had startled Faerowyn in the woods. Two weeks since he had been foolish enough to think that a roughly-hewn pair of boots might change things for her.

Alas, Arlonne thought bitterly, I was meant to be a cursed dragon slayer all along.

Then he saw her.

Arlonne blinked several times, then rubbed at his eyes, sure they were deceiving him in one final, cruel joke. But still, Faerowyn floated towards him, a smile more radiant than the sun on the water reflected in her already beautiful features. He looked down and felt a jolt in his stomach—she was wearing the boots.

Although Arlonne had been unable to find another hoof print on the path or in the clearing, he had replicated his first wax mold in a mirror image for the other foot. Further, the mechanism that had taken him hours upon hours—the attempted replication of the subtle, delicate rocking motion exclusive to human heals and toes—had worked better than he dreamed. Faerowyn was no longer hobbling, nor did she look uncomfortable, so the boots must have fit.

Still, he could hardly believe it as Faerowyn continued to move toward him, heedless of all heads turning in her direction. She stopped in front of him, eyes full, then threw her arms around his neck. He patted her back carefully, all the while looking furtively over her head for her father.

When she drew back, Arlonne was startled to see that Faerowyn’s smile had faded to a downturned expression and her cheeks were wet.

“Don’t go, Arlonne,” she whispered.

Arlonne’s lungs stuttered and suddenly, he couldn’t remember how to work them. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“What?” he managed.

“Don’t go.” Faerowyn’s eyes were pleading as she looked into his. “Arlonne Thaime, dragon hunting and warriorhood would be wasted on you. But your shoes … your shoes could do ever so much good in this world.”

Arlonne’s breath rattled back into his chest in a gasp, and as he held her gaze, he wanted to believe her more than anything. He glanced over her head and caught Fehn’s startled eyes, but eventually, a look of understanding passed between them. In time, his parents would understand, too. 

Faerowyn took Arlonne’s hand and together, they walked away from his unit, away from the world to which Arlonne knew he did not belong. And as they walked, her words glimmered once more in his head, filling the space until it illuminated the rest of him.

“… your shoes could do ever so much good in this world.”

And truly, they did.