Porthos tightened his grip around the hilt of Athos' blade. Despite the size of his hand, the leather conformed and he felt a strong sense of duty as he walked toward the forge.
The sun was out. The king was planning the hunt with an accompaniment of red guards and musketeers. The queen found comfort in the gardens with the count's wife, Catherine, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and estate guards. The two women sat at a table draped in a lace tablecloth. They shared a port of wine, a plate of cheese, and dried fruits. They giggled together, laughed, and Anne listed to the sound advice of a woman twice her age, with years of experience navigating the idiosyncrasies of husbands and their fragile egos.
The chimes of the hammer striking metal echoed across the grounds and the closer Porthos walked, the more he could see. The bellows caused the flames to grow brighter and roar. Iron turned bright red and glowed with the heat, and the blacksmith used the clamp to shape the form and used heat and cold water to manipulate the metal to do his bidding.
A tall man with slick black hair tied into a ponytail, the blacksmith's shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and a heavy leather apron hung from his neck to his knees. It was tied with several narrow strips of woven leather, braided into a unique belt that held several tools within easy reach. He looked up when a shadow crossed his line of vision. He lowered his hammer and shoved the splinter-bar into the flames to reheat.
Obry wiped away the sweat with the flat of hand, leaving a smear of charcoal across his forehead. Narrowed brown eyes looked toward Porthos. "Do you need somethin', Monsieur?"
Porthos looked at the workspace walls: horseshoes, miscellaneous carriage parts, swords, and battleaxes decorated the walls and lined the work benches. Despite the cool air outside, the heat from the forge permeated the room and Porthos had to take a step back. He held up the blade and handed it toward Obry.
"Can you straighten it?"
Obry grasped the sword, pinched his brow, and nodded himself, impressed with the weight, the grip of the hilt, and craftsmanship of the blade. The blade itself was slightly twisted and bowed from the river's abuse. He checked the metal's integrity and nodded.
"It's bent, not broken," Obry said and shifted the blade, "a bend is easy to repair." He looked at his other projects and quirked a smile at the musketeer. "I'll have it ready by the end of the day."
Porthos smiled, shook Obry's hand, and said, "Thank you."