He Took The Time
Chapter 7 Four
He pounded the heated metal. His face was dripping sweat and through his multi-colored tunic as he put more force behind his hits. He hit it again and again, taking his frustrations out on the almost sword. He was sick of everything. If it wasn't a short joke, it was a crack about his age. Too many elbows were placed on his head, too many attempted hair ruffles, being picked up with ease, too many people didn't take what he said seriously; there was only so much a man could take. He could usually take the other heroes' teasing; giving as good as he got.
But everything had just been piling up lately. They'd been in back to back skirmishes with hoards of monsters and beasts. In between battles he'd been up late repairing and sharpening weapons. Battle fatigue and lack of sleep had not helped his disposition or patience with his fellow warriors.
He'd found himself needing to split himself more and more as their enemies seemed to grow in strength. While it had never been a painless experience the increased use had begun to take a toll on him. His muscles felt stretched out, his bones ached and he had a persistent headache that refused to go away. It had been days. Emotionally he felt mixed up, one second he was laughing the next he wanted to punch someone's lights out. He felt like he had four people inside him trying to all break out of his skin, at the same exact time.
He'd always felt lost in a crowd. Now it felt like he was the crowd that he was lost inside of. He'd never been the most comfortable in his own skin growing up but now it sometimes didn't even feel like his skin. He felt so mixed up all the time it seemed. He just wanted to feel one emotion at a time. He wanted to know who he was and just be that person.
He looked down at the sword he was working on. He had gotten it too hot too quickly or pounded it too much or maybe it cooled too fast before he was done working on it. It didn't really matter because whatever he did, ruined it. Nothing was going right; he couldn't seem to do anything right. He threw away the ruined weaponry in a fit of anger.
The Old Man picked up the bent up piece of metal placing it back on the anvil. He waited in silence for the younger hero to start talking. Giving him time and space to gather his thoughts and words. The forger refused to look at him, instead choosing to ignore his presence altogether.
The older hero took a chance, on the recently moody hero, and started talking, "It's just bent." He waited for the young man to acknowledge his words.
"It's ruined," The shorter hero pushed the hunk of ruined metal back to the ground with a clatter.
"Nah, It just needs a little patience," He placed the hilt into the smaller hands, "Someone to take the time to fix it."
"What if no one wants to fix it," He asked, ashamed how close to tears he was, "Or what if it can't be fixed?"
"There will always be people who want to help." The Old Man pulled him into a hug, "Nothing is ever too broken, that it's beyond help."