Waiting

Part Three

"Never let the sadness of your past

and the fear of your future

ruin the happiness of your present."

― Anonymous

          Traditionally, the blacksmith of the Spring kingdom is the most important - and most wealthy – citizen. He or she supplies the crown; they create every weapon one lays eyes upon in this poisoned place. Second only to them is the smith inside the palace walls, housed on the palace grounds. Traditionally, the palace blacksmith of the Spring palace is in charge of keeping weapons in good condition, is too lazy to think of overthrowing the kingdom blacksmith, and hates his job.

          I push through the polluted air billowing from the kingdom's smithy, choking as I attempt to scout the area. The hammering of iron has slowed in tempo, spurring hope in me that the crafter is preparing to step back into the shop. I hear a shout from inside, followed by grumbling from outside. I sneak a glance around the corner of the building. The blacksmith, bronzed and burly, shakes his head as he leaves his tools and throws his gloves on a nearby workbench.

          My mind is beginning to clear of the fumes. When the man retreats from the courtyard, I hastily decide on a part two to my plan. I drop to my stomach and use my forearms to drag myself forward. Blades of grass brush against my face. I keep my narrowed eyes on the rack of weapons just across the small courtyard.

          I alter my trajectory when I notice the sheet of metal leaning against the wall. Not being far from the rack, I smile at the idea of seizing a weapon and lunging behind the metal to hide myself until I am sure that no one will see me slip away. I hurriedly crawl into the space between the sheet and the wall, then lay in wait.

          When the voices drifting from the shop come no closer, I push myself up to sit on my heels. Placing on hand on the metal sheet for balance, I lean forward to grasp the dagger placed in the notch of the rack that is closest to me.

          My fingers brush cool metal, then cry out in pain when the flat side of a sword whacks my hand. I freeze, the blade still resting across my knuckles. If I make the smallest of movements, the wielder could very much slice off my fingers if they wanted to. And there was no doubt that they did.

          "Can I help you?"

          I close my eyes. I know that voice. I hate that voice.

          I am not sure what to do anymore. Run? Cry? All I know is that I don't want to face her any more than I want to face the late king Angra.

          Conveniently, she doesn't give me a choice. She pushes the sheet of metal from in front of me with the toe of her boot, which is, unsurprisingly, half the most gorgeous pair I've ever seen.

          She clucks her tongue at me. "Some wonderful thief you are. I saw you coming from-"

          This is when her eyes find mine. She stares at me now, mouth open into the shape of a perfect O. She remembers me. Good. I would hope that any of my mortal enemies would.

          The hand that had previously held me upright twitched as I focused solely on keeping my balance. The woman threatening me doesn't like this. She drops the sword to grab the collar of my grimy shirt in one hand and grasps at the dagger I was attempting to retrieve in one smooth motion. Suddenly the danger is transferred from my hand to my neck, the impressively sharp tip of the blade resting on my throat while she holds me against the wall with a tan forearm.