The blacksmith beat his hammer against the sword one last time before taking a break. He sighed as he rubbed the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

It had been a long day. He longed to sit back and drink a chilled mug of mead, but he still had work ahead of him. He plunged the sword into a vat of oil and, without looking, tossed it into the corner where it made a resounding clang as it settled among the various other weapons and tools. He didn't take a moment's pause before starting yet another.

War was upon them, and he had to ready himself. With war came bloodshed, and with bloodshed came profit, profit that would keep food on his table and a roof over his head.

In moments of silence such as these he thought back to the past. His mind buzzed with memories that made him so happy he could laugh, so heartbroken he could cry, and so filled with rage he could punch a wall. The memories hurt. He no longer wanted to feel.

He forced his mind to blank, focusing only on the dull ring of steel striking steel. Feelings didn’t hurt when there was nothing to feel.

The blacksmith was so deep in concentration that he didn’t hear the door open, or the wandering traveler enter, searching for shelter from the storm raging outside. The traveler tapped on a metal gong the blacksmith had created for the local temple, but never delivered, for the war had struck and the temple destroyed. A loud sound echoed through the forge, turning the blacksmith’s head.

He looked around at the traveler wrapped in a worn cloak, soaked all the way through, with little interest. There were many such travelers every time war visited.

“May I rest here, until the storm dies down?” The hooded figure asked in a muffled voice.

“Of course, weary traveler. Feel free to warm yourself beside the fire.”

The traveler moved towards the roaring furnace, coming so close that the thick cloak almost caught flame. The traveler made no move to take off the sodden cloak. The blacksmith noticed the traveler wore the emblem of a Kalrithian refugee.

He was accustomed to refugees passing through, seeking safety from the wars that rampaged across the twelve kingdoms. He never asked questions, it was of no use. Most didn’t even take off their cloaks, untrusting.

He didn’t mind though. He had resources to spare for those in need. It was what his wife would have wanted.

This traveler, he assumed, was just like the others. A refugee in need of shelter, with no trust left in them to bestow upon a stranger, no matter how kind they seemed. He went back to work assuming they would be gone before he looked back up.

When he finished working the second sword he dropped it into the vat of oil, and put it with the others. He wiped his grimy hands on his leather apron and glanced up. The refugee was still there.

The blacksmith moved to the table where an ancient pitcher was full of water. This wasn't what he wanted, but what he had. Mead was a scarce find during such times as these. He poured two pewter tankards full, and trudged over to the fire. The traveler took one gratefully, never lifting the dark hood that obscured their face.

The blacksmith sat down hard in a big chair, and stared into the flames. He scratched his bushy black beard as he thought once again of the past. When he was happy. When he had a family.

“I thank you for your kindness, good sir. You are proof that the world is a good, loving place after all.”

“No it’s not.” He grumbled, uncomfortable at the sudden invitation to speak.

“Would you argue that the world is not so good?” The traveler asked. Were they trying to debate?

The blacksmith turned his head from the fire, and looked into the dark hood of the traveler, “The world is ruthless and unforgiving. You should know better than anyone. Kalrithi was a peaceful place, until your people were savagely attacked by your neighboring kingdoms. Now the entire kingdom lies in ruin.”

“That may be true, but I choose to see the light in this darkness. Yes, chaos was rained down upon my people, but when we asked for help, it was provided. By kind people, people such as yourself.” The refugee paused letting the heat of their words soak in. “Why do you see the world as ruthless and unforgiving? You are not a refugee as I am."

The blacksmith was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, he tried to keep his emotion from bleeding into his words, “The world is ruthless and unforgiving. I came to realize that long ago. When my wife was stolen away from me.” As he let the words out all the emotions inside him threatened to surface.

“She wasn't stolen.” The traveler said lifting their hood, “She left." The blacksmith knew her in an instant. He knew her round face, her hooked nose, and her brown eyes rimmed with tears. He knew her uncontrollable hair the color of ripe apples, and her chin held high. All of her features had been burned into his memory since she disappeared. She was Tirjha, his wife.

Before the blacksmith could speak she continued, “I know what you're thinking. Why would I leave you. Where was I. Why didn’t I return, but Raj, I couldn’t stand by, and watch as Kalrithians, my people, were ruthlessly butchered. And then I couldn't come back, not after-” She gulped.

A moment of silence passed between them.Raj just stared at his long lost wife, his heart bursting with emotions. Eleven years. Eleven. And a day hadn't gone by that he wished he had done things differently. That he wished he had known where she was.

Tirjha couldn’t read her husband’s face. She had been gone too long, and now his weathered face was unreadable to her. She had forgotten how hard his chocolate eyes could become, and how masking his short black beard could be.

After a long moment, Raj came to a conclusion. One thought beat out all others. He leaped up from his chair, and grasped his wife into a bear-like embrace, finally letting the tears come. Relief.

He stood there holding her as they both cried. He had questions. So many questions, but for now... for now it was good to know she was still alive.