Todays Flash fiction is inspired by a photo taken in the Great Hall at Warwick Castle.
He looked up as the footsteps grew louder. He anticipated the cascade of metal as it swept towards him with a crescendo of ear shattering proportions stopping just short of his feet. The page looked down at him, sneering before turning on his heel and departing.
The lowest of the low, that was how they all viewed him not even worthy of their contempt most of the time only the page took the time to show his distain and he knew that was because the page had few he could consider himself above. He picked up the breastplate, pock marks from the splintering lance of the lords opponent, he turned the back plate over with his foot and looked down at it, the flattened panel told him all he needed to know about how the tournament had gone.
Dropping the breastplate back on the pile he took up the bellows and began squeezing each manipulation of the contraption fanning the flames to life.
Life that was the word, here he stood far beneath notice of everyone but a few, the orphan boy who slept in his masters workshop, a slave rather than apprentice but in his hands he held the power of life and death. A few degrees to hot or cold and the fire would fail to heat the metal enough to maintain its integrity. He smiled to himself, if only they realised they would treat him differently but he understood something they could never comprehend, that with power comes responsibility.
The smith turned and looked at the boy pumping the bellows, the simpleton was grinning to himself again, poor mite left abandoned at birth, he would never admit it but he had grown fond of the lad as one did ones favourite hound, he shook his head, the hounds had more sense.