1 Rock Part 1

It was early in the morning when Rock awoke. He got out of bed, did some stretches, did his prayers and ate breakfast. His father wasn't up yet, but Rock knew that if he didn't start tending the forge soon, his dad would skin him alive. He made his way to the forge and started getting out the tools needed for the day.

He worked in silence; it was cold in the morning, so he didn't sweat much. By the time it was twelve Rock was done with preparing the forge for his fathers work. Rock sat on the stone floor after putting the last of the heavier tools out. He closed his eyes resting for just a second; he was woken up so early.

"What the fuck boy. You better not be sleeping on the job!" It was the familiar voice of his father. Rock opened his eyes. His father stood in the corridor of their little shack, a drunken bottle of wine in his hand, and a look of rage in his heart.

"Sorry father, I was just resting my eyes," Rock whispered under his breath, but he knew it wouldn't change his father's mind.

"Resting your eyes? On my ass Stone, get up and find my tools, you fucking idiot." Rock's father was too lazy to give him a real name, and he even forgot the name he already gave Rock. Rock stood up and dusted himself off.

"They are in the place they always are, father." Rock's hand shook, he wanted to punch his idiot of a father, he wanted to but he couldn't. His father, Jora Crescent, was stronger than Rock. When Rock was younger, he tried to hit his father but when he did it was like hitting steel. After Rock hit his father, he was beaten within an inch of his life and starved for a week.

Rock learned not to fight back against his father, all it would do was bring him unnecessary pain. His father found the tools and started to work on the piece he was working on yesterday. It was a small sword with little to no decoration. His father only had one technique, and that's what he used to become a blacksmith.

It was a simple technique; it increased the weight of a part of a weapon without increasing the size of the weapon. This was a rather common technique, and in fact, many of the blacksmiths across the land had it in their stores. Rock's father just happened to be slightly proficient in it, and low-level fighters from small sects sometimes came to him for weapons.

Rock had learned the technique a long time ago, his father hammered it into him, but his father never let him practice in the forge. His father would occasionally ask for materials or tongs and tools, and Rock would hand them over.

His father's abuses lasted for the whole day only lessening when his father started drinking again. His father was a quiet drunk; he just sat on the porch gazing at the expanse of forest dotted with little hills and painted with a brush of reds and yellows. Rock shook, he was not built for cold air.

His father stood up; Rock watched him, it wasn't unusual for his father to pace in his stupor. Rock stood still on the dirt just beneath the entrance to the main part of the house.

"Come over here," Jora said with a nasty grunt. Rock didn't make any movements; he knew that coming close would only equal to abuse.

"I said fucking come here." Jora shouted this time, Rock still didn't move, hopefully, he'd just leave Rock alone. He didn't. He walked over to Rock. Rock still didn't move, but this time it wasn't anything logical that kept him there.

"What do you want father," Rock said with a trace of uncertainty, unsure of whether to escape or to confront.

"Don't you fucking speak back to me." Jora raised his hand high in the air and brought it down on Rock's face. His body went limp, and he crumpled to the floor. Jora went over to Rock's body and kicked it again jamming his toe right into Rock's stomach. He went back to his chair, his drink and his kick letting him enjoy the sunset a little more.

Rock awoke with sweat. He always did. It met down his back, it talked in his hair, and it plotted in his arm pits. He sweat in the cold air of the autumn night. Rock lifted himself up to his feet, then fell back down. He hurt all over; his body hurt, his ribs hurt, his ass hurt.

His father was already gone, probably sleeping in his bed without a care in the world.

"Why?" Rock said to the wind, though he knew it wouldn't respond. Rock thought about leaving, but he thought better of it. There was nothing he could do, his mother was dead, the nearest town was miles away, and with the rate, his father was going Rock would die next winter.

"You know you could end it. You know where it is." The wind said to him, or he thought it. Either way he didn't care. Rock knew what to do for once.