To Fan the Flames

He Watched them, idiots the lot.





He watched them from the steamy heat of the workshop. They
threw punch after punch into thick logs, smiling and showing off their bloodied knuckles, flexing pidly little muscles as if they’d actually accomplished something. Morons, they wouldn’t last
ten seconds in the workshop, fewer still actually DOING something in it. The sharp hiss of liquid on hot metal snapped him back to reality, he looked at the horseshoe he’d been hammering into shape it had hardened and solidified, and it didn’t look anything like a horse shoe should. “Get your head out of the clouds boy!” Screamed his father without looking away from the blade he was shaping. “Mind the furnace lest it remind you who’s really in charge here.”


Michael cursed and spat at himself in response as he tossed
the misshapen iron back into the furnace. He took a deep breath to calm himself as he watched cold dark iron become a molten ball of pure elemental creation, wondrous shades of orange, red and yellow that could inspire even the least poetic to epic lines of beauty, violence, passion and violence. He snatched up his tongs and with steady sweating hands poured the angry molten metal into the mold. A sharp blast of hot air from the bellows began the hardening process, and Michael snatched up his hammer. With thunderous noise came the sharp CLANG of metal on metal as a shower of sparks illuminated the darkness of his workspace. It was beautiful, with every blow from his hammer the shapeless molten mass began to take shape. Sparks scored
his highly developed forearms and exposed chest as he hammered the wild molten metal taming it into a docile but fiery core. He snatched up the hot iron with his tongs and plunged it into the cooling barrel at his side. The acrid steam mixed with the sickly smell of sweat in the air and had sent many running for
the door seeking the solace of fresh air, Michael took in deep breaths through his nose, to him it smelled of accomplishment and hard work. Something to be proud of, something he could show. Knuckles heal, bloody hand wraps get cleaned, bruises fade; metal, like the burns it leaves is eternal.


These foolish children in his class at the academy sneered
at him in class. Called him things like oaf, bull ox, tank. They viewed him as ungraceful, thought he lacked the speed and agility needed to be a ninja. The thought made him smile as he uselessly wiped sweat from his brow. Sweat that immediately
replaced itself as he reached again for his tongs and poured more searing metal into a mold a blast of air began the process again, blowing a wave of heat that evaporated the sweat in an instant only to have more pour from his body. He grasped his hammer and swung the white hot sparks reflecting off of the dark lenses of his goggles, he smiled and hummed as he worked. Those idiots back at school would never understand the dexterity needed not to immolate themselves at the furnace. Couldn’t comprehend the weight of the hammer. Their minds and imaginations paled in comparison to even the simplest of craftsman whose blades were hand made. Had no idea of the stamina needed to make even a simple horse shoe. They
would never have to experience the heat, pain, and frustration it took to produce nails for an entire village.





He watched them.


Watched them ‘train’ and laughed. All the punching and kicking in the world would never equate to five minutes at the anvil. He knew this and was happy with it. Knowing full well that every swing of the hammer made him stronger. Every second that sweat poured from his body made him tougher and harder than
any of them. Every horse shoe completed made him more of a man then they could ever be. He knew that soon he’d be a genin, and with that test he would show that all of the ‘talent’ and ‘genius’ in the world weren’t worth their weight in aluminum oxide. That dedication to oneself and trade could lead to
possibilities beyond the curse of talent or genius.


He swung away making horse shoe after horse shoe. Well after
the sun had gone down and all the ‘training’ stopped, the clang of Rothburg hammers continued to reverberate through the air. Long after bellies were full and sleep was well under way, there was still smoke coming from the foundries chimneys. Long after dreaming for Konaha had started, the Rothburgs were finally
putting away their tools, finally bathing and letting burns and muscles begin to heal. At least most of them had. One chimney still smoked, one hammer still CLANGED on its anvil. There stood
Michael, pounding hard at holes in armor, sweat hissing off of hot metal muscles groaning against the strain of hard work that couldn’t stop for something so simple as pain or discomfort. This was his life after all, even if he became some legendary ninja, renowned throughout the land, rich beyond measure
or comfort; the metal would always be there, and no Rothburg rich or poor can resist its call. He was born a smith, would live as one, and if all was right in the world he’d die as one. That was
far and distant thinking, right now he needed to focus. Needed to mind his hammer and his skill, had to think of his training and how this good days work would help him. How working the billows had made his legs strong. How hammer and tongs had given him thick muscles on his arms and chest and how the heat had made him tougher than the nails he made at the anvil. He Hammered away until a sudden sharp grip caught his wrist. Michael didn’t even turn his head, just nodded and put dwn his tongs and took a step away from his anvil. His Fathers calloused hand released his wrist and wrapped about his shoulders. “Go to bed kiddo, you’ve done enough.”


A smile crossed Michael’s lips and he went to his room in the workshop. He laid on his straw mattress and was asleep as soon as his head and pillow met.


(1051 words; Strength and Stamina training)