Scrivenings of the King-Beyond-The-Wall

Western World #33

In the quaint village of Willowbrook, where the meandering river met rolling hills, James McAllister worked as the local blacksmith. His hands, though roughened by fire and steel, were meticulous and strong, traits that endeared him to the villagers who relied on his skilled craftsmanship. Yet, unbeknownst to them, James harbored a secret that stretched far beyond the borders of their small community: he was, by blood, the Duke of Arlingford.

Years ago, weary of the suffocating etiquette and hollow opulence of noble life, James had fled his family’s ancestral estate. He exchanged tailored suits for a leather apron, the echoing halls of a mansion for the clang of hammer on anvil. Here, under the soot and sweat of labor, he found a peace that the luxuries of nobility had never afforded him.

Despite his contentment, James kept his vigilance. Only Mr. Hobbs, the elderly postmaster who had known James since his arrival, suspected the truth. The old man's discreet inquiries into James’s past, paired with an uncanny knowledge of nobility, had pieced together James’s secret. Yet, Hobbs had kept it to himself, respecting James’s choice to live as a common man.

Life continued peacefully until one autumn evening, as the village prepared for the annual harvest festival. As James stoked the fire in his forge, preparing iron for decorative lanterns, a carriage unfamiliar to Willowbrook’s dusty roads stopped outside his shop. From it stepped a woman in a cloak, her poise unmistakably aristocratic.

James’s heart sank as she approached. The past, it seemed, had finally come calling.

“Mr. McAllister,” she began, her voice both stern and soft, “I am Lady Margaret Chambers, sent by the Duke of Arlingford.”

James maintained his composure. “I’m just a blacksmith, madam. How can I help you?”

Lady Margaret studied him, her gaze piercing. “You can drop the act, James. Or should I address you as Your Grace?”

The blacksmith’s shop fell silent but for the crackle of the fire. James sighed, the weight of years lifting with his admission. “Why now, after all these years?”

“Your father, the Duke, is gravely ill,” Lady Margaret revealed. “He wishes to see you, to make amends before it’s too late.”

James wrestled with emotions long buried—anger, sadness, duty. Willowbrook had become his home, its people his family. Yet, the pull of family obligation beckoned to him.

Packing a small bag, he left a note for Mr. Hobbs, the only farewell he could bear to make. With Lady Margaret, he departed for Arlingford, leaving behind the village he had come to love.

As weeks turned to months, James navigated his dual identity: by day, managing the estates of a duke; by night, longing for the simplicity of his forge. In time, he found balance, using his title to benefit his beloved village, improving lives with resources beyond his reach as a blacksmith.

Years later, when James finally returned to Willowbrook, it was not as a blacksmith, but as a benefactor. He rebuilt the school, funded the clinic, and enhanced the local infrastructure—his noble status no longer a secret, but a tool for good. And yet, despite all the good he could do with his noble title, James still found himself longing for the simple pleasures of the forge, and managed to slip away from his royal duties every so often in order to put in a solid day of manual labor and get reconnected to his roots.


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(570 words)


Prompt: Write a story about a character who’s secretly nobility.