The young man stared nervously at the big blacksmith who was glaring with an intensity at nothing in particular. His knuckles were white as the grasp around the hammer grew tighter. After an uncomfortable amount of time, the young man, who was holding a quill for the entirety of the blacksmith’s ranting, opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by another tirade by the angry, Reginald.
“Furthermore: Excalibur’s not even that great of a sword! I made better with lesser metal and a lighter hammer.” Reginald raised the one in his hand and threw it in to a cache of finished weapons that sat just behind the interviewer. The weapons fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, but the young man, who pulled his head down to the table with his hands to avoid the projectile, never broke focus off of the blacksmith who continued talking as if nothing happened.
“If ye had seen Excalibur, ye’d think it a dagger! A REAL vassal (knight) would spit at first sight of that parchment cutter! Still too great for Arthur’s feeble hands! I wager he can’t lift her!”
Reginald began to laugh loudly at his words, roaring at the thought of Arthur struggling to hold his creation as he toppled over from the weight. The blacksmith continued to laugh for a good moment before slowly catching his breath and looking to the young scribe to see his reaction. Reginald’s smile turned to a scowl as he saw a blank expression on the man’s face.
“What? Ye not amused?!”
The scribe answered before thinking and an immediate fear came over him as he said, “but Arthur was strong enough to pull Excalibur from the stone…” The quill fell to the table and the chair toppled over as the young man stood suddenly, ready to run for the shire, hoping his slim frame was quick enough to get away and the behemoth’s size too massive to catch him. The fire from the forge reflected in Reginald’s eyes, adding to the intimidation level, that sent a shiver down the scribe’s spine.
Both men remained in position; one fearless, the other, full of it; one breathing like a dragon, the other wide-eyed, shaking and mentally evaluating his escape options, all ending with him crushed like a grape. But then it happened: an opportunity… a small piece of ash popped up from the burning coals of the forge and floated by direction of the wind, sending it straight up one of Reginald’s nostrils. The blacksmith flinched for a moment before blasting a trumpet-like sneeze from out of his core, impairing him just long enough that the scribe was able to shoot past him and out of the village. He never looked back and didn’t stop until he fell over from exhaustion, several meters away.
The young man lay in the grass, long enough to see the afternoon turn to evening; the dusk turn to night. As he looked at the stars, he reflected on the conversation he had with the blacksmith. He had hoped to be able to write a story that people would read for generations. A story of a man who created one of the most iconic relics of the age. A story that any blacksmith father would be proud to have written by their son, a scribe.