But the smithy shop—it looks exactly the way I left it.
Magic. That’s how that happens. The smithy is filled with magic because it’s mine. And I think I knew this, but had forgotten.
I casually wonder what else I’ve forgotten.
But then I remember why I’m here. The forge has been going for a couple hours now. It’s time to get to work.
I leave the roof by a set of circular stairs that dump me out into the main room of the shop, then go over to the forge and stoke the yellow-hot coals in the center, piling them up into a slightly bigger mound.
As I do this, another memory hits me. Bloodhorn. I used to put bloodhorn in my chainmail to make it stronger. That was so long ago—way, way before anyone ever heard of the Americas.
This makes me think of the spell in the book. Dragon fire. I wonder what kind of magic I can put in this bag by using bloodhorn fire. It’s my magic, after all. It’s always better to use your own magic, when you can. I’m not going to leave out the dragon fire—I’m absolutely positive I can convince Tomas to belch up a little flame for me—but if you’re a monster made of hellfire, you might as well use that too.
I look at my neatly hanging set of tools on the wall, choose a rasp, and then lean over the fire and file off a good portion of the tip of one horn. It’s an awkward thing to do, but the fire sparks and sputters with each sprinkle of horn powder, turning it a bright and beautiful shade of royal purple.
Satisfied, I walk over to a barrel in the corner where there are dozens of iron rods waiting to be forged into something useful. I’m just about to grab one when I spot a cup of copper rods hiding in the back. They are very thin rods. The perfect diameter for chainmail rings, actually.
But it would be too soft. Copper is a decoration when it’s this thin, not what you would use for protection. An iron bag with copper accents, though. Now that sounds nice. Something I could even be proud of.
I grab the cup of copper, plus a few iron rods, and take it all over to the forge. I do the iron work first. Heat it up, and then start cutting small strips to make rings. It only takes me a few minutes to realize I will be here for days making enough rings for a small chainmail bag. But oddly, this doesn’t bother me. In fact, I settle into the work, my muscles remembering what to do. Automatically reaching for the right hammer, chisel, tongs, and cone to bend the iron just the way I want it.
I lose myself in time. Enjoying the work. Wondering why I ever stopped doing this.
By the time I look up to find a winged monster in my doorway, it’s late afternoon. He says something to me, his bat wings lifting up and falling down with his speech patterns. Of course, I don’t understand his words, but I think I get the gist of it.
It’s time to stop. He wants me to go back to the cathedral.
At first, I’m disappointed that I have to leave. I’m into it. I want to keep going. I was always that way with projects. Once I get started, I’m super-focused on finishing. In the old days I used to sleep in the shop, sometimes working until morning and only taking breaks when I was too exhausted to continue. But Pie will probably be home soon and I don’t care how much I like the blacksmithing—I won’t be sleeping out here. I can’t wait to get in bed with her tonight.
So I nod at him, point at my forge, and say, “I’ll be up in a minute. I have to close the fire.”
The monster is satisfied with this answer and leaves.
For all the dozens and dozens of years between this day and the last time I was in this shop, none of what I’ve done today required much thought. It was all instinct. And closing the fire—without fully putting it out so it will be easier to start back up tomorrow—is also done on instinct.
I like this. It allows my mind to wander. To ponder. To think.
And I did a lot of thinking today. Mostly about the past and how, even though I have been cursed practically my entire life, it hasn’t been all bad. It’s been a while since I had a sense of purpose. But being here in the smithy was a good reminder that I have value. I can do things. I can contribute.
In fact, before Grant, I was a very active participant in the whole curse-breaking goal. Things changed when he got here. And now that I find myself on the other side of Grant’s influence, I wonder if he didn’t do that to me—didn’t make me this apathetic asshole waiting to be freed—on purpose.
To keep me out of the way.
I take off my heavy leather apron, smile down at my pants—because even though they are dirty, and sweaty, and now black with charcoal dust, they are going to make Pie smile too—and then pat my pocket for the bag of rings.
It’s gone.
My head whips around. But that fear subsides when I see the bag sitting on the edge of the water barrel in the corner. I walk over, pluck it up in my hand, then go over to a set of leather straps hanging on the far side of the shop, fashion a tether, and tie the stupid bag to my belt loop before shoving it back into my pocket.
Just a few days. That’s how long it will take me to finish this magical bag if I work diligently. And then I can stop worrying about magic rings.
I stop at Tarq’s tomb on my way back to the cathedral and find the winged monster. He says something to me, which I interpret as Pie isn’t back yet. And I nod at him, suddenly getting an idea.
Her first day of work. She was so strung out about it this morning, and while I’m sure it wasn’t entirely terrible—Tarq is a really good guy, despite her misgivings—she deserves a special evening.
A celebration of sorts. To commemorate her first work day as a magical being.
I was just planning on taking her back to the cottage, throwing her down on the bed, and fucking her brains out, but I suddenly have a better idea.