The Talisman of Flame and Ash

A broken pact. A lost child. One final act of love from a grieving blacksmith.

Galdrin awoke, sweat trickling from his forehead and down his cheek like the streams traversing in the plains outside the village. He sat up and wiped his brow. His memory still haunted him in his mind. He peered through the window at the silver light of the three moons returning his gaze. In the village, they were known as the Father, the Mother and the Child. Normally their glow provided him solace, but not this night.

He lay still, staring at the low-beamed ceiling of the cottage. Three years may seem like a long time for others in the village, but for Galdrin, it passed like three grains of sand through the hourglass since the night his daughter vanished into the Glistening Grove. His body remembered the jolt of being woken by the scream of Elonie, his wife—whom he had lost to an incurable illness a year later—when she found Mirael missing from her bed.

Her footprints led through the mud into the woods outside the village, where they vanished abruptly. The way the footsteps had laid, in even, almost rhythmic steps, appeared as though she had moved while in some sort of trance.

The bed on the other side of the room, still made, untouched the past three years, waited like a ghost. Elonie had insisted it would be kept that way, in hope that she’d return.

Throwing on his cloak, Galdrin stepped outside into the night air. The moons hung low and full, casting their light across the yard, illuminating the way to his forge. Its silhouette was familiar, and a true comfort to him.

He pushed open the forge door, the hinges groaning softly in protest. His tools hug in place, his anvil sat like an altar to a god he understood wholeheartedly—fire, metal, muscle, rhythm. With practiced hands, he stoked the coals, coaxing flame from embers he hadn’t touched in days. The fire flared to life, and the forge welcomed him to its home like the warm embrace of an old friend.

Galdrin took a half-finished blade from the rack—one he had started and abandoned countless times in between the occasional job. He hadn’t worked as much as used to, only taking up the craft to create what he could in order to survive. Tonight, the sword would do. He gripped the handle of his hammer with natural strength, the weight grounding him.

The hammer fell. Again, and again. Each stroke a breath, a heartbeat. In this pattern, he didn’t have to remember the way his daughter’s laugh rang like chimes or the softness of his wife’s hands as she’d braid flowers through their only child’s hair.

Here in the strength of fire and steel, Galdrin could lose the ache of loss, even if for a while.

But as the flames cracked and sparks flew, and the blade took shape, a scent drifted through the night air—honeysuckle and ash. The same scent that lingered the night she vanished.

He froze, caught in his throat. Outside, beyond the glow of the forge, the wind stirred the trees.

Something whispered his name.

Galdrin.

He rushed outside, the sweat on his body chilling as the night greeted him again. He still held the blade in one hand and the hammer in the other.

But no one was there.

Galdrin circled the forge’s exterior and glanced back toward the cottage, waiting to see if someone was also waiting for him. He knew no one would play a trick on him, especially late at night. Maybe it was the work of his own memory. He sighed and returned to the sanctity of his forge.

The anvil was not empty. Something sat upon it, slightly glowing.

Galdrin returned the blade to the rack and looked at the strange object on the anvil, keeping the hammer ready in case it was something that could harm him. It appeared to be some sort of talisman, carved out of some dark ancient wood, in the shape of a crescent moon cradling a flame. Runes curled across the crescent’s curve, in some old forgotten script. In the center of the flame, almost suspended, a small round obsidian stone gleamed in the light of the embers.

He hovered over the talisman, not touching it. The smell of honeysuckle, as well as ash, seemed to come from it, and it brought a tear to the blacksmith’s eye. He snatched up the talisman. The runes began to shimmer with a silvery light.

Then he heard laughter. A child’s laughter. Mirael’s laughter!

Something was calling for Galdrin. The shape of the talisman was not unknown to him. As a child, a fever had overtaken him, keeping him bed-ridden for days. He had a strange dream, in which he saw a blackened tree under the moonlit sky. Hanging from one of the branches was a talisman—the same talisman he held now in his hand. In the dream, a voice called his name, and said a word in some strange ancient language he didn’t understand. When he woke the next morning, Galdrin’s fever had broken, and he was healed.

The dream stayed with him, but he never spoke of it to anyone. He had all but forgotten about the talisman, and now he stood holding it, like it had been ripped from his dream and placed in front of him.

Galdrin needed answers. But for now, he needed sleep, as drowsiness began sweeping over his body. He doused the flames and closed down the forge before returning to his bed, keeping the talisman close to him. He hoped that no haunting dreams would invade his second sleep, and he’d wake well-rested, just like the morning after his childhood dream.

* * *

The Glistening Grove had always been there, outside the village, beyond the edge of the fields where the wilderness grew untamed. When he was a child, Galdrin was warned by his elders never to cross its borders or get lost in its shadow. As a father, he had forbidden Mirael from playing close to it. Yet the Grove still had taken her away.

He visited the forge briefly before leaving the village. He didn’t know what he might face in the Grove, so he wanted to be able to defend himself. The sword was a personal project, a bit mis-shaped, but had a decent weight, and in his hands, it would suffice if needed.

The talisman, now hanging from his neck by a small cord, hummed as he followed Mirael’s ghostly path toward the forest. He could still see her footprints along the ground, even after being washed away from rain over the years, as well as hearing Elonie calling out her name in hopes that she may have just been hiding from them.

Galdrin stopped. As he stood a few strides from the forest’s edge, he stared at the trees, their trunks and leaves catching the sunlight in the manner that gave the Grove its name. While it looked beautiful, he feared entering, even in his forty years. The talisman, however, called his name again, in the same way it had in the dream of his childhood. But there was no excuse for fear—he had to go in.

He stepped across the border of the forest, hearing the whisper of the trees surrounding him. It was like walking through the crowd at a bustling marketplace, with voices in all directions but not being able to understand anything that was being said, because of the sheer number of speakers. It was the secret language of the wood.

To Galdrin’s delight, it was not dark. Even with the thick cover of leaves overhead, the sun still poured its light through in scattered columns, and it allowed him to move through the grassy terrain. There were no roads here. The lack of even a footpath showed that this place was not meant to be traveled.

Galdrin didn’t know how long he had been walking, as time twisted between the present and something out of his memory. It was though he was a child again as he walked, just like he had slipped into his fever dream.
In the dream, the tree that held the talisman stood alone, isolated from the living trees that surrounded the area. Nothing grew on the branch, and its bark resembled rough coal streaked with veins of ashen gray. It looked weak, as though any blow could knock it to the ground. Nothing looked close to that in this forest—at least, not in the current location. Galdrin didn’t know exactly how large the Glistening Grove spanned.

As he looked back, he regretted not making any sort of trail that he could use to find his way back. Anyone who had entered the woods could easily find themselves lost, and Galdrin wondered if that might have been what happened with Mirael. For him, though he possessed the talisman, and that seemed to be leading him somehow. The forest still seemed to thicken around the blacksmith, almost enclosing him.

Honeysuckle tickled his nose, but without the ash that had accompanied it. Galdrin scanned the foliage around him, but he didn’t see any of the white flowers that identified that plant. They normally grew in the bushes closer to home, where Elonie and Mirael would pick them.

Something stepped out of the brush without a sound, as though it had always been there. It had been watching him the entire time since entering, and it dropped its stealth and made itself known to him. The creature stood with the height of a stag, but the shape of something closer to human with a body covered in bark and laced with moss. Its hair, trickling down past its shoulders, twinkled like liquid silver.

Galdrin opened his mouth, but found himself unable to speak, captivated by its golden eyes that never blinked. They burned like suns trapped in glass orbs—not a cruel or malicious burn, but not kind and gentle either. It was old, older than anything in existence. The gaze stabbed into and through him, into his heart and glimpsing the last burning embers of hope he had left about seeing Mirael again.

The guardian spoke first. “You carry the flame of a broken bond. The forest remembers. Do you?

“I can’t say that I remember.” Galdrin wasn’t lying. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to lie to this creature even if he did try, for it was of the world, and it already knew of things that he didn’t. He thought deeper, searching for anything that might fit. A memory flickered in his mind, not of himself, but of Elonie. “My late wife had made a pact with some of the Hidden Folk in her younger years. She never said what it was about—it was something personal to her. Is that of what you speak?”

The guardian inclined its head, golden eyes flickering light candlelight. Its voice stayed low and slow, like roots shifting deep within the earth. “Pacts are not chains, yet they bind. Hers was woven of love, fear, and fire—a thread offered freely, then frayed by sorrow. She asked for protection. When the cost was paid, she wanted to break the pact.”

A pause. Then:

“The forest always remembers. The child sleeps, kept by oath. But the bond was broken. And now…it reaches for you.”

The talisman hummed. Honeysuckle and ash tantalized Galdrin’s nostrils once again. As he looked away from the creature’s golden gaze, past its shoulders, he thought he could see Mirael’s form, sleeping at the foot of a tree, cradled by its roots.

Galdrin found it difficult to look away from her, but his eyes suddenly whitened, and he lost sight of the forest where he stood. Instead, he saw Elonie yards from the outermost edge of the Grove, from where he had just entered. She clutched her enlarged belly—he knew it was Mirael—and pleaded to an unseen entity.

“I need your help. They say you can grant protection. Please, protect our child when the time comes. I made this as a token of our bond.” Elonie removed something from around her neck and tossed it onto the ground. It was the talisman.
Before Galdrin could respond, the fabric of time, which seemed thin already, distorted and weaved around him. The location changed as well. Elonie stood in a dense part of the forest, not unlike where Galrdin now stood. He wondered if he was meant to come to this very same spot.

She was crying.

“I never asked for this. You said she would be protected.”

Silence among the trees.

“Please let me see her again. Just once.”

The guardian spoke now. “Conditions are like boundaries. Once crossed, a price needs to be paid. You will now be afflicted.”
As Elonie turned back, it appeared to Galdrin as though she looked intently at him. The skin on her face had turned gaunt, just like he had remembered her in the last months of her life. Her lips, which trembled as she cried, had also lost all their color. She stumbled away, the image fading off into the mist.

Galdrin blinked and saw the golden eyes still staring him down as his true sight returned. Miriel still slept against the tree. He called out her name and held the talisman, hoping that somehow it would be a protection to him as well as Miriel. She did not wake up. “What must I do?”

“A bond broken must be healed by a bond offered. Something given, freely, with knowing heart. You carry such a thing.” With those words, the guardian gestured at the talisman in Galdrin’s hands. “Ash and flame. Creation and ending. Will you give up what made you whole, to make her whole again?”

The forge inside Galdrin’s chest burned. Bargains had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He dared not speak of such thoughts to the creature’s face, though he felt that, somehow, it already knew what he thought. “Let me go home and think on it, if I may. I will come back tonight with my decision.”

The guardian blinked slowly, and with a graceful nod, it was gone. So were the tree and Miriel.

Galdrin turned around to look for them, be found himself at the edge of the Grove, at the entrance location he had taken earlier. The sun’s rays warmed his face but gave him no comfort. Only one heat could provide that for him. He stomped across the field toward the village, in the direction of the forge. Every step felt heavier than the last. He paid no attention to the talisman, and in response, it gave him no reaction.

* * *

The blade Galdrin had carried with him to the Grove rested upon the anvil, awaiting the hammer’s strike as its creator prepared himself for the craft. They were like kindred spirits, both far from perfect but still progressing toward some lofty ideal.

It wasn’t often when he could be perfectly imperfect.

Galdrin hummed to himself as he watched the oven roaring. This was his serenity, especially after losing the two people he cherished most in the world. While he had been smithing for over half of his life, forging his identity as the town smith and master of metal, he used the craft as more of an escape in the past years. The clang of metal, the quenching of the fiery creations, were like musical meditation to him, bringing him a level of peace that nothing else could.

After working on the sword, he quenched the blade one last time. It hissed in the water, bringing steam to swirl around him like a cloud of smoke. As he finished the weapon, he lay it down upon the anvil and looked it over, pleased with the result. His eyes scanned the room, observing the tools: the hammers and chisels and tongs all hanging neatly in their places. He fixed his eyes upon the talisman, which he had hung on the hook by the door, where his apron normally would be when not being worn.

A thought rose from within him, slow and sure.

“Let them take the fire from my hands, but not from my heart.” He closed his fists and looked at the veins bulging on the top of his hands. He had been bestowed something special, and he there was one last thing he had to make.

* * *

As evening neared, the forge rang with the chime of metal on metal, like church bells announcing a solemn end. Galdrin smiled as he looked at his final creation: an iron replica of the talisman, mimicking every detail except for the obsidian stone. Once he was finished with the original to be returned for Mirael, the new one would serve as a reminder of his sacrifice.

He collected the finished sword and both talismans, and scanned the forge one last time, uttering words of thanks under his breath, even though he knew no one was there to hear them. He closed the door and locked it, not realizing that he had left his apron on, even after donning his cloak. As he walked back toward the Grove, his footsteps were lighter, and freer, than they were before. The smell of honeysuckle, drifting through the air, carried him as well.

The ancient forest watched Galdrin in silence as he followed the moonlit path to the guardian’s clearing. A solitary tree rose from the center of the cleating, just like the one in his dream. Galdrin felt like a child again. Just as it had before, time seemed to swirl around him.

The guardian awaited the blacksmith but showed no smile or any expression of pleasure. It eyed him instead with anticipation. The air shimmered faintly between them.

“I’ve come to finish it.” Few words were needed for Galdrin.

“You understand what is owed.”

With a nod, Galdrin removed the wooden talisman from around his neck. “I was gifted with a talent. My craft is the fire that burns within my blood.” As he said the words, Galdrin felt apart from himself, as though someone else was speaking. He dangled the cord near the tree and hung it from one of the branches.

“One life for another. One fire for a brighter one.” The golden form of the guardian shone brighter, as if lit from within. The blackened tree caught flame, white and soundless, burning the talisman along with it. Honeysuckle and ash mingled in the smoky air. Galdrin and the guardian watched the tree gradually wither to a pile of ashes on the ground, leaving only the obsidian stone buried inside it.

Galdrin staggered, as a familiar fever swelled through him again. A tremor passed through his hands and up into his arms. The gift of his craft had left him—the intuition, the flow, the music of fire and metal were silenced. He looked at his hands. They were still his, but felt different, less than what he knew. Facing the guardian, he blinked as he awaited something.

“The bond is mended. The forest remembers.”

“And Mirael?”

“From the ashes, the flame is rekindled.”

Out of the shadows beyond the clearing, Mirael stepped forward. She moved in a slow, dreamlike pace at first, as though she was sleepwalking. Upon seeing her father, she called out, “Daddy!” and sprinted toward him. Mirael appeared exactly the same as the night of her disappearance. As she nestled herself into Galdrin’s embrace, she looked at him quizzically. He was older, and a little grayer, than she had last seen him.

And someone was missing. “Where’s Mama?”

“She became…” The words on Galdrin’s tongue crawled to a murmur that he had to choke back.

Mirael took his hand and guided him through the forest’s weave. Both were oblivious to the guardian’s absence, for it had vanished into the mist. “She made a bargain, didn’t she? That’s why I was brought here.”

Galdrin gasped at his daughter’s wisdom beyond her years, and her understanding. “She never said. I only learned about it myself after.”

“I heard her voice sometimes. In the leaves. She sounded…sad.”

With a gulp, Galdrin tried his best not to let his own sadness show. “She loved you. She never stopped.”

They walked without words for a while, until finally they were greeted by the radiant glow of the triple moons. They left the Grove, without looking back. Neither did they return home to the village. The new talisman of flame and ash, forged out of sacrifice and renewal, guided them elsewhere, and protected them always along their chosen path.

In the village, rumors spread of the disappearance of the grieving blacksmith, who left for the Glistening Grove after the mysterious losses of his wife and daughter. He had become a loner in the years since, and one day left without a word. The villagers spoke of their spirits belonging to the three moons: the Father, the Mother and the Child. Those stories provided further warning to anyone possibly venturing to the forest.

The guardian received no more visitors, so the bargain was complete.