Outside, the air felt cooler, cleaner after the heat of the feast.
Mark left the butcher's yard and made his way toward the bakery. He didn't even have to step inside. Anabel was already outside, sweeping flour from her apron.
She looked up, brushed a strand of blonde hair from her angelic face, and smiled in quiet relief with that smile that could light up the world at midnight.
"You're back."
Mark shifted his weight as he came to a stop. "Mira nearly buried me in food."
Anabel laughed softly, falling into step beside him as he started toward the forge.
As they passed the butcher's house again, Cecil was waiting with a large sack at his feet.
"As we promised, the extra meat will be preserved for your use in the future. I am sure Mira would love to cook for you again sometime. Maybe you can let Anabel here know so we can get food prepared ahead of time and make it a family meal."
Anabel blushed at the forwardness of her father. Mark missed the intention behind the words of her father and nodded his head.
"I think I would like that, Cecil. That was some of the best food I have ever had, even when I take into account how I was starving this morning. I have heard great things about Chef Mira from the town chatter, but I was not aware of how much they underplayed her skill."
Cecil chuckled a bit.
Mark gave him a firm nod. "Thank you."
Cecil smiled faintly. "Thank us by not eating the whole village out of food next time. Now the two of you should get a move on. I am sure there is work to be done at the forge, and you're burning daylight just standing here."
They took off without any further chatter, waving off Cecil as they left. Mark grabbed the mining sack that Cecil had brought out to them and slung it over his shoulder as they made their way to the forge.
They didn't speak much more on the way. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the crunch of gravel underfoot.
The forge was cool and dim when Mark made his way through the threshold of his work station.
He left the pelt on the bench with Anabel, who was softly petting it, running her fingers through the smooth fur.
He crossed to the hearth, hammer resting where he had left it, its head catching the faint light through the small window that was overlooking the mountain tops adjacent to the
He wrapped his fingers around the handle, the weight familiar, grounding.
Behind him, Anabel leaned against the workbench, her eyes on him, saying nothing.
The day's noise: Mira's chatter, Cecil's remarks, even the dying growl of the warg, seemed to fade. Only the forge remained. And the steady presence of the beautiful young woman watching as Mark observed the crackle of the forge roar to life.
He pulled the warped and cracked sword from its holding spot next to the forge and placed it on the flames. It quickly absorbed the heat it needed to start glowing that brilliant white it gave off when it was time to be worked.
'If the hunting was so easy, perhaps this sword will not give me as much trouble either. . .'
He moved the sword to his black iron anvil and grabbed his hammer. The smooth handle wit its slight grooves for each finger, making a bit of a grip after years of constant use, fit right into his hand like it was grabbing him back.
Each swing brought with it a crisp ping. Each strike caused sparks of impurities to shift or shoot out of the sword like fleeing fireflies.
The sword started to heat up with the rhythm of the hammer, as Mark began to fall into a trance.
Anabel's eyes never left him. She didn't speak, didn't dare break the rhythm of the moment. She only leaned against the bench with the pelt pooled beside her. Gripping it at the edge of the fur as she leaned toward the light show.
But she soon found herself looking at the blacksmith, instead of the flames. Appreciating the roll of his muscles, which poked through the thin linen cloth that clung to his sweaty back. Noticing the power that he brought down with each strike of the hammer.
Mark is oblivious to the focused attention on him. He is fully absorbed in the rhythm, the feel of the heat that travels off of each strike. The vibrations he feels through his whole body with each strike. He listens to them. They tell him where to strike next. Where to shift the load, how to distribute the alloy.
It is like the sword is giving him the key to reforge it, though it is his experience that really drives him. His trance brings no visions, it only makes his work the whole of his attention.
As the sparks continue to fly, and the vibrations between the hammer and the sword continue to resonate, the signature white flames begin to burst from each strike of the hammer.
Anabel is once again entranced in what seems to be magic to her. But it is unable to hold her whole attention.
'is that flame not burning his hands? It seems to shoot out just as much as the sparks. . .and they brush against his hands here and there. . .thought I suppose he was fine after nearly burning the smithy down that one time. . .'
The warped sword began to straighten, and the cracks were slowly mended.
Soon, Mark was done with hammering the sword. And the sword appeared to be perfect. Not a crack or spot out of place. But it was still white hot. So he stepped back to let it cool.
Anabel ran up to him as the forge cooled off. She grabbed his right hand with both of hers, leaning up against his arm in support.
"Do you think it will take this time? How did it feel?"
Mark looked away from the sword briefly to take in her question and observe her sincerity. She looked genuinely curious. It made his heart skip a beat looking into those perfect, crystal blue eyes.
He looked back at the sword. "I have my doubts. It was a productive reforging, but I have a feeling this is going to just be one of many."
They remained, slightly embraced, as they watched the sword cool. Once it was red-hot again and then started to dull, the warping started to happen. Then, the cracks started to form. The cracks and warping were different than what they were before the reforging attempt, but they formed all the same.
Anabel squeezed Mark's large hand and looked up at him.
"I am sure you will be able to fix it soon. You are an amazing blacksmith."
Mark looked into her eyes, his breath catching for a second, and replied.
"I hope you're right. I really like this sword. Thank you for your support."
Then he squeezed her hand gently to return the gesture.
They stayed there, in the loose embrace, until it became obviously awkward. It had reached the point where both of them were aware that they were each participating in something meant for more than just a friend. Yet, neither of them was willing to take the next step.
So they both stood there, looking into each other's eyes. Anabel was blushing. Both of them had their hearts beating in their ears. But Anabel wanted to let Mark make the first move toward something more. And Mark was unsure of how to actually move forward.
Eventually, Mark turned back to the sword. Anabel felt disappointed but also a bit relieved.
'It may have been too soon to be that brazen. . . my face is burning! I really wish my heart would calm down. . .'
Mark, on the other hand, was focused on the sword once again.
Letting go of Anabel, he moved to the sword and picked it up as she sat down with the Unikuma pelt again while using the bench for support.
Mark turned the sword over in his hand, staring intently.
'As I thought, this cycle will need to be repeated many times over at least a year.'
And, so, Mark did exactly that.