Mark continued to work the forge, not realizing that Anabel was not there to watch today.
The morning sun climbed high while Mark hammered out the dents in old ploughshares and reshaped broken hinges. Sparks danced, and the rhythmic clank of steel echoed as usual. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and moved on to the next job.
Unbeknownst to him, the village had erupted into chaos.
Anabel stood on a stool inside the seamstress's cottage, arms held stiffly out as pins marked the hem of a soft white dress. The seamstress muttered around the needle in her mouth, circling like a hawk while Anabel stared at her reflection in a wavy bronze mirror.
"Breathe, child, not too much. I want the seams to hold," the seamstress said, voice sharp but careful.
Anabel tried to stay still. Her heart had been racing all morning.
Outside, Grom and Cecil were elbow-deep in flour, spice, and arguments.
"No, no, no, not that one. Use the big pot," Cecil barked.
Grom replied with a grunt, frowning.
Grom's wife, the broad-shouldered woman with flour on her cheeks and a spoon in her hand, ended the debate by shoving both men aside and taking over the preparations herself.
Lauren, meanwhile, was in her own whirlwind, assembling layers of a dense, honey-sweet cake with the precision of someone handling glass. She sang to herself as she worked, tasting frostings and brushing crumbs from the counter with practiced sweeps.
Guards passed through the town center, trailing Anabel's older brother, Phill, who seemed far too relaxed for someone being questioned.
"I told you already. No, I didn't see the witch. No, I don't think she's casting a curse. And no, I'm not hiding any firecrackers. I'm just happy my sister's finally tying the knot."
He grinned at them with a mouth full of tart fruit and walked off before they could corner him again.
The witch woman's cottage remained empty, her door slightly ajar, herbs drying silently on strings overhead.
Mark noticed none of it from his smithy on the edge of the village.
He worked through lunch, eating monster jerky with bread and cheese in one hand while filing down a jagged axehead with the other. In the late afternoon, the tool work was done.
He turned back to his sword.
It sat waiting, quiet and clean on the black iron anvil, half-shaped and half-polished. Mark brushed metal dust from its surface and checked the cracks that still ran down the flat of the blade.
The village buzzed behind him. He did not hear the footsteps racing across the square, the laughter of children trailing ribbon streamers, or the crash of someone dropping a tray of cups.
He was lost in his work. The sword needed its weight balanced, the fuller refined, the edge re-shaped. He wanted it to ring true when finished, to finally take form as a completed weapon.
As the sun began to lower behind the trees, Mark finally stepped back and exhaled. The sword was set on the black iron anvil to cool. He looked around the forge, dusted off his apron, and reached for a rag to clean his hands.
He still had no idea what was waiting for him just outside.
He watched the cooling sword crack and warp, as it always did, before packing up and calling it a day.
Mark hung his rag on a nail and stepped into the cooling evening air, his breath starting to become visible. His shoulders ached in the usual way, and he expected the path home to be quiet.
Instead, he froze.
The area outside of his forge had been transformed. Ribbons in bright colors hung from posts, lanterns on tall poles shimmered in the last light of the sun, and rows of benches filled the space where there used to be empty grasses towards the smaller, younger, elder tree.
The strange bird from the older elder tree in the distance cooed softly, faintly joining in on the festivities.
Villagers packed the seats and overflowed onto the grass, whispering, laughing, and waiting. Children darted between legs, trailing streamers, and the smell of roasting meat drifted from a great fire where Cecil and Grom tended their feast.
Mark blinked, bewildered. For a long moment, he thought he had stumbled into a festival he had forgotten, but then his gaze caught on the altar. A wooden arch stood right in front of his forge, wrapped with flowers and fresh greenery.
It struck him like a hammer blow.
"Oh. Right. That was today . . ."
His words came out flat, almost lost in the cheer of the crowd, and several villagers chuckled as if he had told a joke.
He noticed that they were all wearing nice clothes, much nicer than he had seen them in previously. Though, this was his first wedding.
Music struck up from a fiddler near the benches, and the people shifted, turning toward the path that led from the small park with the young elder tree. Mark turned too, slow and unsure, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest, beating harder than his hammer as he forged new equipment.
Anabel stepped into view, coming out from behind the younger elder tree.
For all the years she had visited his forge in her plain dresses, sometimes in work clothes, Mark had never seen her like this.
The seamstress's work glowed in the firelight, which displayed a soft white gown that caught every spark of gold from the lanterns, cinched at the waist, and flowing to the ground.
Her hair had been brushed to a glossy, golden shine and braided with flowers, falling over her shoulder. The dress hugged her curves in ways her modest clothes never had, showing the fullness of her chest and the generous shape of her hips.
Mark's throat went dry.
She looked less like the girl who teased him while he worked and more like some fairy stepping out of a story, radiant and untouchable. Her eyes found his across the crowd, and instead of looking away shyly as she often did, she held his gaze with a small, certain smile.
The villagers rose to their feet as Anabel walked the path, her brother at her side. The guards who had harassed him earlier now stood straighter, as if embarrassed by their treatment of him. Lauren followed a few steps behind, carrying a small bundle of flowers, her face glowing with pride.
Mark realized he had not moved since stepping out of the forge. Someone nudged him forward, and he stumbled a half step, cheeks hot.
By the time Anabel reached the arch, the fiddler's tune wound down. The chatter faded to a hush. Mark found himself standing opposite her without remembering how he got there.
She was close enough now that he could see the nervous flutter of her breath, though her smile never wavered.
For the first time that day, the hammer and anvil were far from his mind.
The village elder, a stooped man with a staff polished smooth from years of use, stepped beneath the arch and raised his hands for silence.
"Friends, neighbors, family," he began, his voice creaking but strong. "We gather tonight to witness the joining of Mark, son of James, and Anabel, daughter of Cecil. Marriage is not simply words spoken . . . It is the joining of two lives into one, a bond that endures better than this village through the growths and the shakes, forging new lives out of old ones."
Mark shifted his weight from foot to foot. The elder's use of "forging" made his stomach twist. He had not prepared anything.
The elder looked to him. "Mark, would you speak your vows?"
Mark swallowed hard. All eyes pressed against him. He opened his mouth, and what came out was as clumsy as an unfinished blade.
"Uh . . . right. Vows." He rubbed his palm against his apron, then tried again. "Anabel, you've been . . . steady. Like . . . like the tongs I use every day. Always there when I need you, never slipping, never breaking."
A few chuckles rose from the crowd. His ears burned, but he pushed on.
"And . . . and I guess I want to promise . . . that I'll be the hammer to your anvil? Or . . . no, wait . . . that doesn't sound right. What I mean is . . . when things get hot, and the world's striking down hard, we'll hold steady together. And . . . I'll keep working on us, the way I work steel, until we're strong enough to last forever."
There was laughter again, but it was warm laughter, not cruel. Several villagers clapped softly, and Cecil grinned from ear to ear. Mark let out a breath and tried not to look like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
The elder turned to Anabel. "And now, your vows."
Anabel's cheeks were pink, but when she spoke, her voice carried clear and sure over the crowd. There was a firmness to her speech that gave off the feeling of finality.
"Mark, from the first day I brought you bread at your forge, I saw more than a blacksmith. I saw a man who works not only with his hands but with his heart. I vow to walk beside you in the days to come, to be warmth when the nights grow cold, to be comfort when the weight of the world grows heavy, and to be joy in the quiet moments we share. I will keep faith with you as surely as the seasons keep faith with the turning of the year. Through the growths that shake this village, I will lean on you as a pillar in this marriage. A pillar that will not fall, even when this mountain takes this village."
Lauren dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Several women in the crowd sniffled as well. Even the seamstress, standing off to the side, looked misty-eyed.
Anabel finished with a soft smile. "I love you, Mark. Always."
Mark stared at her, dumbstruck, the laughter from moments ago forgotten.
The elder nodded. "Then, by the witness of your families and neighbors, you are joined. Mark, you may kiss your bride."
Mark hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. Anabel lifted her face to him, eyes closed, cheeks glowing. He kissed her, clumsily and briefly, but it was enough to send the crowd into cheers.
The fiddler struck up a bright tune, benches scraped, and Cecil was already waving people toward the feast tables. Grom's wife shouted for someone to bring out the roasted meats. Children darted in every direction, chasing each other under the lanterns.
Flowers were being thrown into the air from every direction, and the cool mountain wind blew down the last of the wild plum blossoms.
Mark pulled back and looked at Anabel again, still dazed. She laughed softly at his expression and squeezed his hand.
"You did well," she whispered.
"I almost compared you to a horseshoe," he muttered back, and she laughed harder.
The village celebrated around them, and for the first time all day, Mark was not thinking of the forge.
Once the celebrations quieted down and the villagers trickled back to their huts, Cecil and some of his friends began to break down the decorations.
Anabel was talking with her mother, and her brother, Phill, actually approached Mark.
"It's time, my brother. You need to go make this marriage official."
Mark realized what his new brother-in-law was saying and seemed a bit disgruntled.
"Don't worry, Mark. It's the job of the father or older brother to ensure this is taken care of. I'm not trying to make things weird. You really do need to take her back to your house."
Mark looked at her brother, seeing in his bright blue eyes that he seemed a bit awkward. Like he didn't actually want to be having this conversation.
"Don't worry, Phill, I'll take care of things with my wife."
Phill patted Mark on the back as he walked away, just as Anabel walked back over to Mark. She was blushing, but she also had a resolute look on her beautiful face that took his breath away.
Mark leaned close and spoke quietly. "Come with me."
She blinked, then smiled and slipped her hand into his without a word.
Mark led her along a narrow path he had walked countless times before, up a small rise that overlooked the valley below. The moon had risen, silver light spilling across the trees, and the air was cool and still.
"This is my favorite place in the whole village. When the moon casts its glow over the river in the valley below, and the vampire moose show their children how to cross." He looked up. "The stars fill the sky, this time of night. They are much easier to see from here, without the glow from the village."
Anabel stood beside him, her hand tightening around his. She gazed out over the valley, then at the stars as they flickered occasionally overhead.
"It is beautiful," she whispered. "I see why you love it here."
Mark turned to her then. The lantern glow from the village barely reached them, but the moonlight caught her features, softening them until she seemed almost otherworldly. His breath caught. The way her hair glowed silver in the moonlight, the way the dress hugged her just right, the way her eyes didn't look away.
His voice caught in his throat. "You're beautiful," he said simply.
Anabel smiled, soft and knowing. "Took you long enough."
Without thinking, he leaned in. This time, the kiss was not clumsy or brief. It was deeper, driven by the weight of everything that was previously unspoken between them.
All the awkwardness melted away as their bodies pressed together, heat rising between them like coals catching flame.
Her hands gripped his shirt. His arms wrapped around her waist. One of her hands was placed behind his head as her fingers ran through his short hair.
They broke apart only for air, and even then, their foreheads stayed pressed together. When they finally stepped back, both were breathless, eyes wide with the same fierce hunger.
Mark spoke hoarsely. "Let's go home."
Anabel nodded, her cheeks burning.
They walked back together, hands still joined, until they reached his house. The door stood open, lantern light spilling out. Mark lifted her easily into his arms, and she laughed softly as he carried her over the threshold.
The forge had always been his life, the fire and steel his only passion. But that night, Mark discovered something that filled him with a heat just as consuming, something he could never put aside.
That night, Mark discovered something he loved just as much as fire and steel.