Within seven suns and eight moons, the woman comes again. She’s just as dirty and haggard as before. He tells her he’s working on it, but he has a king’s sword to finish yet, for they come from a far land and offered him a hefty price.

Underneath her words of understanding, there is a quiet plea for him to hurry. He is curious, but a blacksmith never asks what urgency lays beyond his shop. That is not his business if they never wish to share–sometimes heroes and wanderers do, and they speak of horrors beyond the horizon, they talk about the adventures he would never have. And this woman offers no stories, offers very little payment, she is as silent as the night.

But she is gentle still, in her words, in her approach. There is hunger somewhere deep down inside of her, and he’s not quite sure it’s a food hunger. But there is something.

She visits every day now, bringing with her freshly baked bread or fresh milk. There are apologies for not being able to bring him gold much like heroes, kings, and gods. She has very little and an extra mouth to food–this is where he finds out about her daughter. This is where he learns her daughter is her entire world.

“But what of your husband? Surely he would have been able to make something!”

“No, no husband.” The woman shakes her head. “He is not here, he is not around.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,”

The woman does not answer.

One day, the woman does not come back. He works the metal, trying his best to forge it. Trying his best to make it look nice, as he is not an artist but a weapons maker. Perhaps today, she is busy and she will be back tomorrow.

Yet, she does not return the next day. Nor the following.

After two passing weeks, and a finished medallion, he goes home to tell his husband of this woman who had given him the request. He shows him the small, silver heart enscribed with such an old language he learned as a child.

“Perhaps she will be there tomorrow?” His husband suggests over a warm dinner, and fire softly crackling in the background.

The blacksmith wonders if that would truly be the case.

Many moons pass, and the leaves change colors on the trees–showing that truly, Winter is starting to wake from her sleep to bless them with snow. Summer makes her bid farewell with one last storm, with lights that brighten the sky and thunderous noises that shake his home.

It is when he is locking up shop, when the fire goes out for the night and stones put away, does she appear. Body drenched, and so much thinner than before. He thinks he sees a bruise underneath ratty clothes. There are questions running through his mind, many things he would like to say. Perhaps he wants to yell at her, perhaps he wants to give her some of his money, and he’s not quite sure what will happen between now and the moment she leaves.

“I have been ill,” she tells him. “I apologize. I have brought nothing of value. There is nothing I can give you. I have made a silly request and cannot pay for it.”

“There is one thing you can pay me with,” He says, and watches her expression become apprehensive. He sees the way her eyes dart around, looking for something that would possibly be useful. There is fear, real and true. So unlike the way she had been before. “Answers. What is this for?”

“She needs to be protected,” The woman answers, softly. “I have heard that anyone who holds the metals you make will always be safe.”

“The gods will always protect her,” The blacksmith says. “It does not matter if you have something I make or not. The gods bless those who continue their world.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps the gods will bless her longevity and love, perhaps strength,” The woman replies. “But I would still rather her have something special.”

The blacksmith nods. He understands. If he and his husband had decided to adopt, he would be willing to do whatever it takes to make sure their child will always have something–even when the earth takes them back.

“May you have the blessings of the gods,” the woman says, with her final departure.

Years later, when he is old and gray, when the world has slowed for him and it was harder to weld swords and the stories of adventures become something more he would rather read than hear, do rumors catch his ears.

The princess is getting married, but it is a peculiar type of marriage. And the king extends an invite to the blacksmith and his husband, as gesture that he remembers his youth himself. And of course, he agrees to go. The princess had grown up into a beautiful, kind, young woman. She is as wise as her father, she is as gracious as her mother. But she resembles her father more–a spirit for adventure, a desire to wander the large fields, scope out the mountains, and speak the language of the fae.

The ceremony is throughout the land, throughout his bustling city. They all chatter away, whispering rumors of this secret finacee. Nobody knew that someone had caught her heart and her eyes.

“Maybe she got engaged to a fae!” One jokes. “Told the fae her name, and now, she is marrying them!”

“Maybe one of the gods caught her eye?”

But all invitees go quiet as the crowned princess makes her way towards the alter, dressed lavishly but yet, not adorned in long dress. No, she wears the clothes of a well dressed warrior–of black lined with navy blue. The sword he had made her is at her side.

She stops by his side.

“After, I wish to speak with you privately.”

And the ceremony commences, her partner is also a lovely young woman. Her hair had been tamed into a bun adorned with braids and flowers. She is dressed in a long dress, yet, she looks uncomfortable in such finery.

They each tell stories, joyous ones, of their life together. It all ends in a kiss–but there is something more. The way the crowned princess clutches the other woman’s hands tightly, the way she whispers something, and how the now wife looks both so sad and happy.

Afterwards, the newly weds approach him and pull him off into a private room. It is then the blacksmith sees the medallion. It hangs around her neck, still so nicely polished to this day.

“Thank you,” the woman says.

“What happened with your mother?”

The woman draws in a deep breath, there are many sorrowful tales he has heard in his lifetime. Many stories of loss, the grief of heroes who witness their friends and loved ones die honorable deaths–the way they have watched villages be razed. And yet, nothing strikes deep as she quietly tells him of her childhood.

Her father had not been a kind man, a drunk whose idea of love was a form of fists. Often, her mother would tell her to hide and often, her mother would spend days in bed. And there would be times where her father was nowhere to be seen–these were the days her mother could leave without fear.

She tells him that the medallion had been more of a gift than a wish for protection, but underneath it all, her mother had truly prayed it would hold to the rumors of blessed metals. And this beautiful young woman believes it to be true–she had gotten so lucky throughout her life. But there was a point where she had thought that maybe the magic wore off.

One winter evening, when she had been a young teen, her mother sent her off to hunt for food. When she had returned, she had found their little home set ablaze. There had been no survivors–but out of it all, she was led to live a different path than her mother. All the prayers she had prayed after were all answered, when she asked for the weather to be kind, it was. And finally, she was led to the princess.

And this young woman, who looks so much like her mother, thanks him profusely for showing her mother such kindness. She offers him money now, a gracious payment for something so special.

The blacksmith declines, with a shake of his head.