Chapter 3: The Bent Nail

Elias was three when he got sick of crawling. He'd spent too long scooting through the straw, knees scraped red, proving he could move, but it wasn't enough—not by a long shot. Standing was the real deal—wobbling on two legs, shaky as a drunk on a bender, but a hell of a lot better than dragging himself around like a busted lawnmower. It took weeks of grabbing Lysa's skirts or the edge of Thom's stool, pulling himself up while his knees buckled and his arms shook like wet twigs. She'd hover, hands flapping, cooing about "my strong little man," while he gritted his gums and swallowed curses his tongue couldn't spit out yet. Strong? Bullshit. He was a scrawny little runt with a temper, but he kept going, falling and standing and falling again, because sitting still felt like giving up.

Dunmere didn't care one way or the other. The hovel stayed the same—squat and miserable, slouched against a wind that whined through the cracks like it had a grudge. Mud walls patched with straw where the weather clawed holes, a roof sagging like it was ready to call it quits, and a single room that stank of smoke and damp no matter how hard the fire burned. The firepit sat smack in the middle, spitting sparks onto a dirt floor littered with straw that stuck to his hands, Lysa's shift, the blanket he'd outgrown but still got tangled in half the time. The loom crouched in the corner, its frame warped and creaking under Lysa's hands, and the pallet of rags and straw slumped by the wall, sour with sweat where they all slept in a heap. Outside, the yard was a swamp of mud and pig shit, the pen a rickety sprawl of sticks and twine barely holding the sow and her runts. Beyond that, a patchy field stretched to a line of gnarled trees—barley, maybe, or whatever sad crop Thom could wrestle out of the dirt with a hoe and a limp.

The family didn't shift much either. Thom's cough was a fixture now, a wet rasp that shook him when he limped in from the field or the pigs, his bad leg dragging like it hated every step. He'd slump on his stool, carving at a lump of wood with a knife so dull it was more rust than blade, muttering about the day like it'd spit in his face. Lysa stayed glued to the loom, her fingers red and cracked from the thread, her voice weaving songs into the air—off-key, stumbling, but steady enough to cut the quiet. Brenna was taller, eleven or twelve, her shoulders hunched from hauling water, her mutters sharper every time she dumped the bucket by the door. Elias watched them all, quiet as a shadow, soaking it in like he was figuring out a machine he didn't have the parts to fix yet.

He wasn't a baby anymore, not really—though Lysa still scooped him up sometimes, cooing like he was fresh out of the womb. His legs were tougher, his hands less clumsy, and he could toddle across the room without eating dirt every other step. Talking was still a mess—his tongue turned "nail" into "nay" and "fix" into a slurred "fih"—but he got by with grunts and points, enough to make Lysa smile and Thom grunt back. Didn't matter much anyway. He wasn't here to jaw—he was here to do something, anything, to stop feeling like a sack of spuds they had to lug around.

The hovel was a mess of weak links begging for a fix. The firepit smoked too much, choking the air until Lysa's eyes watered and Thom hacked harder. The door—a slab of splintered planks lashed with twine—swung loose, banging in the wind whenever someone forgot to kick it shut. Thom's stool rocked on a busted leg, creaking under his weight like it might collapse any second. The pigpen's fence sagged where the sow kept ramming it, posts leaning like they were done standing upright. Elias saw it all, his mind itching like it used to when a customer rolled in with a clunking engine—find the break, patch it, make it run. Problem was, he was still a shrimp, barely up to Thom's waist, with hands too small to grip much and a voice that couldn't explain what he was after.

Didn't stop him. One morning, Lysa was out bartering cloth—gone to the village, a cluster of hovels a mile off Thom called "a piss-hole with a smithy"—and Thom was in the field, hacking at weeds with a hoe that looked ready to snap. Brenna was at the stream, her bucket sloshing as she trudged off, leaving Elias alone in the hovel. He'd been eyeing Thom's whittling knife for weeks—a short, nicked thing, more rust than steel, left on the stool when Thom stumbled out. Elias wobbled over, legs shaking like a newborn colt, and snatched it. The weight was wrong, too heavy for his grip, but he clung to it, grinning like he'd swiped a prize from under Thom's nose.

He plopped down in the straw, knife in one hand, and started digging. The floor was packed dirt, scattered with junk—twigs, pebbles, a shard of cracked pottery Lysa hadn't bothered to sweep up. He poked around, grunting and sweating, until he found what he wanted: a bent nail, half-buried near the wall. It was a sad little thing, twisted like a question mark, rusted at the tip—probably left from some half-assed fix Thom gave up on. Elias held it up, squinting in the dim light leaking through the roof's hole. It wasn't much, but it was something—something he could use.

His brain kicked into gear, the old mechanic's rhythm: assess, plan, execute. A straight nail could hold—patch the fence, brace the door, steady the stool. He didn't have a hammer, didn't have pliers, didn't even have a decent surface. Didn't give a damn. He toddled to the firepit, knife and nail in hand, and wedged the nail between two stones—chunks of flint Thom had dragged in to ring the flames. The angle was crap, but it'd do. He tapped the nail with the knife's tip, testing, then leaned in, smacking the flat of the blade with his palm. His arms shook—three-year-old muscles weren't built for this—but he kept going, grunting with every hit. The nail bent a little less, then a little more, straightening out slow and sloppy. Took him half an hour, maybe longer, whacking and wiggling until it looked usable—not perfect, but good enough.

He sat back, panting, and wiped his face with a muddy hand. One job down. Now he needed a target. The pigpen was a mess—sagging where the sow kept shoving, twine fraying like wet string. Thom griped about it all the time, how the runts kept slipping out, how the sow'd bust through one day and they'd have nothing left to eat or trade. Elias figured that was his shot—small fix, big win. He staggered outside, knife tucked in his fist, nail pinched between his fingers. The yard was a swamp, mud sucking at his bare feet, wind spitting grit in his eyes. He tripped over a root halfway to the pen, face-planting with a wet splat, and lay there a second, cussing in his head—*damn this place to hell*. The sow snorted at him, her bulk pressed against the fence, one runt squealing as it wedged its snout through a gap. Elias hauled himself up, spitting dirt, and wobbled over. The posts were a wreck—two leaning together like tired drunks, twine snapped where the sow's weight had won. He picked his spot: a cross-brace where the nail could bite.

No hammer, no problem. He jammed the nail into the wood—splintered but soft from rot—and whacked it with the knife's hilt. His hand stung with every hit, the blade slipping half the time, but he kept swinging, grunting like a tiny madman. Took forever—his arms burned, his breath came in huffs—but the nail sank in, pinning the posts tighter. He stepped back, muddy and grinning, as the sow shoved again. The fence creaked, wobbled, but held—just barely. Good enough.

Thom limped up a minute later, hoe slung over his shoulder, his shadow swallowing Elias whole. "What's this mess?" he rasped, eyeing the nail like it'd sprouted there. Elias pointed, chest puffed, and slurred, "F-fix. Pig." Thom squinted, then barked—half laugh, half cough that bent him over. "Pig-brained, that's what you are," he said, wiping his mouth. "But it'll hold, I reckon. Might keep that fat sow in 'til supper." He ruffled Elias's hair, rough enough to sting, and limped off, muttering about the field.

Lysa came home at dusk, arms empty—whatever she'd bartered for wasn't much—and found Elias by the pen, still grinning like a fool. "What's my boy done?" she cooed, scooping him up. Thom grunted from the hovel, "Fixed the damn fence, that's what. With a nail and a bit of crazy." Lysa's eyes went wide, then soft, and she hugged him tight, like he'd done something big. Brenna slunk in with her bucket, arms crossed, and muttered, "Still weird," before dumping the water and flopping by the fire. Elias didn't care. He'd made something hold—a little jab at this dump of a world. That night, sprawled in the straw, he flexed his aching fingers and stared at the fire's glow. He wasn't useless anymore—not completely.