A Bond Across Ten Thousand Miles
Cristina remembered. The sensation of the cold winds from Vivar brushing her cheeks, a memory from childhood that now felt like a distant dream. It had been over half a year since she had set out from Navarre's Monso. Instead of the majestic high plains she had gazed upon as she left her homeland, what now stretched before her eyes was an endless sea of golden dunes and red sands shimmering with heat haze under the blazing sun.
From Monso at the northern edge of the Iberian Peninsula to the impossibly distant Damascus in the East—a journey of over a thousand leagues. And from there to Jerusalem, another sixty leagues beyond. Not even a round trip, but a one-way path nearing eleven hundred leagues. To her, this terrifying road was far more than a mere pilgrimage.
'My daughter, don't weep so sadly—smile. If you are truly the daughter of the man called El Cid, shouldn't you show a bold face?'
Her father, Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar. The man the world hailed as the hero of the Holy Land, El Cid—his final moments lingered in her memory simply as that of an ordinary doting father.
'Even if my body is buried in this land, I know my soul cannot ascend to heaven while leaving this unstable world behind. So I ask you this: after I am gone, take my sword and offer it at the altar in Jerusalem. It is to fulfill to the end the weapon and duty the Lord granted me...'
She recalled her father's weakening breaths as he lay dying in the land of Valencia he had conquered. Far from departing in a dignified manner, he could barely move in his final moments, yet he had whispered to her as if there were words left unfinished.
'The Lord showed me behind the veil in a dream one day... Go, to the lands of the East, where our millennium will be blessed...'
His breath had stopped there. What had been his final words? The mystery still haunted her heart, and she might never uncover it. Was it an object? A person? Or some fateful something? The question remained unsolved.
After her father uttered those words and passed, King Alfonso had honored him by not committing the body to the earth right away, holding a funeral instead. With the royal favor extended, the family had sorted affairs throughout the estate. Now, two years after his death, she finally stood on these red sands to fulfill his wish.
Her eyes, once filled with sand, now dropped to her waist. Fingering the pommel at the sword's hilt, she drew it forth. A sword obtained from the Bukhar of Morocco, the one that had stayed by her father's side to the end. Tizona's cool ring was just a weapon, yet it felt as if her father were beside her.
Carefully stroking Tizona's blade, she thought. Had her father not delayed her marriage, she would long since have wed a man named Ramiro and lived out her days as the lady of Monso. Bearing and raising his children, building a stable family. Days ruling Monso alongside her future husband, toasting with wine on special occasions. Imagining grown children brought her father's dying wish into sharp, realistic focus—the chance it had given her.
Before formally wedding Ramiro, using her father's last request as an excuse, she had seized this final freedom in life. Every moment now felt precious. Upon completing the pilgrimage and returning, marriage awaited for her family's sake and the stable rule of Monso under him. This was her true last chance for genuine, unfettered travel.
Thus, she had savored every step, etching the lands into memory, resting at sunset while reminiscing. Crossing Aragon's rugged plains, strolling Toulouse and Marseille in southern France—she had witnessed haughty Frankish smiths tirelessly weaving chainmail. In Genoa and Pisa's ports, Italian merchants had flung gold coins dearer than their faith to hoard materials for weapons and armor.
Even beneath Constantinople's golden roofs, self-proclaimed center of the world, the Byzantine emperor had ignored his vassals' glares, desperately scraping together mercenaries. When she left home, she thought it mere passing clamor, a fleeting wind. But now, beyond Antioch's towering walls, breathing the hot winds of this land, she knew. Like a great earthquake, East and West—two colossal powers—were on a collision course to shatter each other, and it wasn't far off.
The ripples drawing them together and pushing them apart would transform the lands she had crossed and those ahead. The road back from Jerusalem to home would surely differ vastly from the one outbound. And amid this uneasy future, she was just a shallow pilgrim, compelled to return home under that guise alone.
"Haa... It was fun leaving, but maybe I should've just stayed in Monso..."
She didn't know what vision her father had whispered of. Yet she had plunged ahead blindly to honor his final request and savor pre-marital freedom—only to face this. Even her optimistic nature wilted.
With no time to stop, she pressed on endlessly. Then:
'Heard the news? They say the Malik of Damascus has silver dragon warriors now.'
'Yeah, heard. Word is, it wrecked the Western knights' swords to bits~'
The passersby's gossip yanked her attention from grim futures as if worries had never existed. Street rumors had been the spice sustaining her grueling pilgrimage; lingering to hear them firsthand had stretched her journey far beyond plan—a secret of her own.
How could she ignore such special, entertaining tales? As a lady, ignoring them would be the real rudeness.
With that rationalization, her heavy steps lightened as if never burdened, carried by the spring haboob to the source of this rumor.
On the road back to the industrial complex, Hakim—who had accompanied her under the guise of escort—stayed until they neared Damascus's borders. Just before parting, he pulled his camel close.
Without stopping, rummaging in his robes atop his mount, he produced a supply order stamped clearly with the Malik's seal. The devilish contract that would keep them running ragged for ages, now in his hands.
'Holy... shit...'
A curse nearly escaped, but scanning the details silenced even that. Far beyond expectations— she'd figured standing army and auxiliaries, generously five thousand sets. But the eye-torturing number was far vaster. Silence alone remained.
"Congratulations... or not, I suppose. Still, if you can handle this volume, you'll be Damascus's richest craftsman, that's certain."
Should she rejoice or despair? Her mind slowly tallied, projecting post-expansion output. Verdict: feasible.
Reading her eyes, he—despite handing it over—asked incredulously, as if surprised by her confidence.
"You can really manage it? Don't overdo it. I doubt half a year suffices."
He wasn't wrong. Traditional smiths, even en masse, lacked such efficiency. Teams of masters, journeymen, apprentices under each—gathering more just scaled forges, no real gain.
But her factory—no, industrial complex once scaled with cash and manpower. From space to tools, facilities, to wrangling every artisan, journeyman, apprentice efficiently. With planned quotas steady, even surplus time.
Sure, it'd nose-hook her to his whims, no side gigs till done. But now, it was no pure curse. Crafting for standing troops, auxiliaries, Bedouin cavalry, conscripts—a golden shield guarding her growth. Perfect to bulk up safely.
Early to mid-phases: expansion, hiring, training, adapting to bloat—frantic, grueling days ahead.
The artisans hadn't grasped it yet. Despite warnings, they gawked—unfelt scale, unknown volume.
Thus, post-Hakim, they reached home base.
*
Days after Damascus. Cognitive dissonance shed, artisans hammered steel like madmen. Crucibles short, forges bursting, hydraulic hammers contested—factory in chaos.
Barada riverside same: Duqaq's gifted land, prime for hammers and utilities, first-developed. Workers' shouts, piled materials, clanging construction merged with factory din into pandemonium.
Scanning the infernal order—devil of numbers tormenting them—she pocketed it with a sigh.
"Haa... Bottomless pit."
Muttering, her eyes caught motion in peripheral: outsider poking near developing riverside hammers, despite warnings.
Faded cloak sand-caked—pilgrim from afar, fine. Yes, fine. Risks minor: splinters, light injury.
But next: leaning into subtly shifting hammer mid-adjustment. Before skull-crushed like melon, intervene.
"Stop! Back off now!"
Her shout turned the pilgrim's head, eyes meeting. Expected shabby man. Wrong: Miriam's age, woman under worn cloak.
Eyes on her, oblivious to scolding or near-miss, she approached beaming innocently.
"What's this? Water turns that, moves this to smash?"
Grasped basics, fearless—eyes sparkling. Worry evaporated; Baraka gawked blankly.
"Uh... Don't get that close, you could get hurt. Step back."
Now noticing: her speech shifted to Iberian accent naturally. Her fluent Aragonese revealed origins seamlessly.
"Curiosity's fine, but back off quick. What if you get hurt shoving in thoughtless?"
Undejected by scolding, she brightened at his natural Aragonese.
"But so curious! And meeting someone who speaks it—thrilling!"
"Still, danger—blind to it? If no injury wanted, to the safety line, far off."
Words ignored; she crept closer, reaching for waterwheel axle.
Anticipating, Baraka grabbed her wrist, yanking her close.
"Waterwheel? Knew them on windmills only! Hmm, always like this? Other smithies, uncles just hammer arms thick..."
Even wrist-held, she babbled; he chided.
"Hey, no other hand. Pinch in gap, fingers snap clean. Crack."
"Ah... Sorry. Too amazing, slipped."
Finally heeding, she grinned sheepishly, withdrawing hand. Then stared at his face.
Mutual gaze. Pilgrimage hardships etched on her: pale skin unmarred by toil, translucent. White sand flecked cheeks like freckles. Though weary, green eyes smiled, scrutinizing him.
Indescribable, but sand-clung cheeks hinted solo trek from Iberia—arduous, not smooth.
Unable to contain curiosity, questions poured.
"You the owner? Look young. Separate boss? Father the smith?"
"I'm owner. Youth a crime? You're the noble from afar. Why here messing?"
Eyes widened.
"Eh? That obvious? Speech weird?"
Puzzled, tilting head, then beaming, drew worn silk-wrapped dagger from bosom.
Toothless old blade inside, carefully wrapped.
"I'm Cristina, Cristina de Vivar. Father said visit East; perfect timing for Holy Land pilgrimage. So urged... Indeed, magic-like wonders everywhere!"
"Magic? No such nonsense. Why draw dagger?"
To his reply-query, Cristina proffered it grinning, requesting.
"Figured ask for tune-up! Even unused dagger needs care. You can, right?"
Her pure request from stranger—absurd, yet no refusal stirred. Drawn to dagger instead.
Accepted, gripped hilt, unwrapped silk slowly. To nearby rotary grindstone, whetted edge smoothly.
Meantime, her interest veered: "Wow, what's this? Fish scales, sparkling, tinkling?"
Dagger entrusted, she halted at Sirion gauntlet display, poking fingertips, eyes agleam.
Quick finish; unaware approaching, he tossed spare pinky-scale remnant.
Arcing to her chest, landed; startled, she clutched bosom, snagged scale.
"Eek! Scared me. This scale... for that glove?"
"Yes. Spare—take. Pilgrimage souvenir. Jerusalem round-trip home, long haul, suffering. More souvenirs, less regret."
Fondling smooth scale, endless 'wow's, 'heehee's. Face pure girl—pilgrimage toil forgotten, innocent smile.
"Really take free?"
"Free, so scram quick. Busy with Malik's ten-thousand-set order. Dying busy—go!"
"Ten thousand? Elite to get that—amazing! Need later, order tons armor. Big order, toss one free?"
Her whimsy drew eviction-order, then laughter escaped absurdity. Iberia to here: four-thousand kilometers minimum. Trek that far for orders/bonuses—hilarious.
"Sure, think post-safe-return. Now, no sales block—out!"
Shoved her from dusty site; cloak flapping, cradling silver scale palm-treasured, she receded.
Her distant figure recalled omission too late.
"Ah, right."
Distracted, dagger left on grindstone stand. Unwittingly kept it, evicted her daggerless. Scratched head.
Dazedness caused slip; chasing now futile. Distant shout unheard.
She, scale sun-glinting entranced, forgot dagger—vanished into crowd.
Chuckle swallowed, reclaimed dagger at bench.
Edge restored glossy; examined inscription where hilt met blade.
Cristina de Vivar
Cristina de Vivar—name engraved, unlike casual hand-off. Significant dagger, better kept than discarded.
Someday she'd return for it. Wrapped as given in silk, placed tenderly in personal shelf locker.
Dagger secured, mulled her name. Familiar ring.
But no lingering—dagger aside, Malik's volume consumed; no luxury pondering names.
Dismissed lightly: revisit Damascus someday. Unknowing then how her scale and locker dagger would entwine later.