The day after a free one was always the worst. More exhausting, more boring, more menial somehow, than even regular smithing. Sometimes Will let himself be taken away by flights of fancy, imagining himself crafting legendary swords, cleaving mountains in two and slaying dragons with but a single swing, like the heroes did in stories his mother used to tell him before bedtime. But in the end, he always returned to reality, and found himself hammering away at another door hinge for a tavern that was broken or drawing out one nail out of an order of hundreds, and every time it was a little bit more frustrating, though he always found himself getting over it in the end.

At least the weather fit his mood, the lush rays of sunlight from yesterday completely vanished, replaced by streaks of heavy rain battering against the shutters of the forge, the wind outside blowing so ferociously that the rain actually somehow managed to blow through the chimney over the forge, small droplets sizzling in the hot coals every now and again, though the sound was very much drowned out by the hammering sounds the small smithy was filled with. He dropped the hammer again and again, letting it bounce to conserve energy, working through the longstanding monotony.

Anya never had any problem with the boredom, and neither did his father, or at the very least, neither of them ever complained about it. Not that he did either, since ultimately, he felt grateful for the job he was born into, as there were options out there that were a whole lot worse in his opinion. Coal mining for example, a dreadful, dangerous job, only the toughest families in the village ever took on, and Will respected them for it, no doubt, but coming back from a day of work, smeared in coal dust head to toe, only to die randomly due to an unexpected gas leak in the tunnels... it wasn’t precisely his idea of a fulfilling career.

Neither was small town smithing, sure, but maybe, if he was allowed to inherit the forge, instead of it going to his sister, as he sometimes feared deep in his heart, he might be able to make his own decisions. Build his own inventions, forge things that were different from the mundanities of everyday life. He felt his mind drifting again, but in an effort to escape the mundanity, he let it. This time, for the first time he could remember, as he hammered away at the small kitchen knife he was currently forming, he let his thoughts drift.

The howling winds, rattling at the shutters faded away, the great gusts of the heavy bellows Anya was operating behind him, the sounds of a piece of metal being turned in the hot coals, so it would heat evenly, all of it faded away, as he stared down at the piece of metal he was forming. Small sparks flew with every hit, a hypnotic pattern, just for him. He stopped resting his hammer on the anvil, raining hit, after hit, after hit onto the metal, not stopping, not slowing, as he allowed his mind to wander.

He returned to the fantastical world he had been dreaming about ever since he first heard of heroes in the stories of his childhood, and he didn’t stop it. A world where he could make things that mattered, more than tiny conveniences for everyday customers. He imagined swords that could slice through steel like butter, hammers that could crush boulders with a single blow, arrows that could fly straight and true for miles.

And when he least expected it, the world answered to his desires.

He felt a sudden and extreme pressure in his chest, like he had just been dealt a crushing blow by the world itself. Something in his chest resounded, like a great anvil being struck, metal on metal, a heavy impact. And from that impact, a spark flew. But much unlike a spark from a grindstone, it didn’t go out! He staggered slightly, and found himself standing still, hammer held limply at his side. Yet deep inside, he could still feel the spark, buzzing in his chest like a bee, begging to be let free, to be used! But when he looked down, all he saw, was the knife-blade on the anvil, slowly dulling from a bright cherry red into an ordinary dull grey.

Not even thinking, he grabbed it with his tongs, and marched over to the hot forge, where his dad had luckily just finished heating his piece. And suddenly, he was back at the anvil, ready to work again, no memories remaining of the actions that had brought him back there.

This was not unheard of, his father referred to it as ‘the Flow’ and Anya sometimes claimed to feel the beginnings of it as well. A time where all distractions faded away, and nothing was more important than finishing the piece. But having heard of the phenomenon, and feeling it for himself, were two entirely different things. The dampener it had placed on the emotions he was feeling because of what he was doing was disconcerting in and of itself, but that too was shoved into the back of his mind to be explored later.

He got back to hammering, slowly drawing out the tong of the blade, the part where later a handle would be affixed. And as he hammered, his arm unusually tireless, he focused on the spark in his chest, turning his concentration inward, trusting to his experience and whatever was happening to him, that he wouldn’t make a catastrophic mistake while hammering, even if he wasn’t actively concentrating. It was a truly disconcerting feeling, turning his mind inwards to get a better look, even if it wasn’t difficult per se.

His mind split into two, a small corner of it still looking through his eyes at the knife making process, and the rest... well he wasn’t really sure what he was doing! He wasn’t actually looking through his eyes, but he could see nonetheless, the singular spark buzzing through an empty space in his chest, that seemed to go on forever, in all directions, dark as the midnight sky during heavy rainfall, and yet infinitely deep. He was floating on nothingness, no ground under his feet, no feet to stand on in the first place, and yet, more important than all of that, was the spark in front of him. It was erratic, flitting here and there, directionless. And suddenly, Will felt that maybe, just maybe, he could give it a direction to go!

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He reached out to it, trying to move himself, and despite his disturbing lack of a body, his perspective shifted. He flew forward, chasing the spark through this blank space, as it dodged and weaved, seemingly content in its freedom, and when he finally captured it, he understood why that was. As he managed to grab a hold of it, his mind was assaulted by images. Familiar images! Suddenly, he was holding a sword, slicing through armor like wet paper, then a hammer, then... the darkness shattered, and he found himself hammering iron once more. It had gone too cold again. He wasn’t sure if that was the reason his attempt at chasing the spark had failed, but he felt it was more likely that he had simply not managed to control it well enough. But there was no way he could falter here.

His concentration resharpened, as he went to reheat the metal. This time he had to sit through the entire process, his flow interrupted, though there was still enough structure left over to let him focus on his work, and let the worried thoughts wait for later. He didn’t know if the spark would stick around, or if it was tied to him hammering the metal, he had no idea what was going on, and now, he couldn’t afford to take any chances. This was what he had been waiting for. Something extraordinary. He was happy, content even. But this, this was what real dreams were made of. This was more than just living a good life. He could feel this was the seed of something bigger. Larger than he could have imagined. And he feared he only had one more shot at it, as the blade was nearly done!

He took it back to his anvil, and resumed hammering, flattening the blade, bringing it into its final shape, determined to see this through to the end. The visions of his own imagination had surprised him. But ultimately, somehow, he had made them, hadn’t he? They had come from his mind, and he saw no reason that they should be able to conquer him. Once more, he split off his mind, and went to search for the spark. The second time it came to him a little bit easier, a little less effortless, and he found himself once again, in blackness. The spark was swirling around him, somehow always looking like it had just flown fresh from a grindstone, bright, and full of short-lived energy. And this time, when he caught it, he was ready.

He embraced the emotions, the pictures, the feelings, but he didn’t let them control him. Or at least he struggled against it. They nearly dragged him under once more, and he felt it would be so very easy to lose himself in his own fantasies of being a fantastic swordsman, but he had done that last time, and accomplished nothing. So that wasn’t the way to do it. But when his mind finally cleared enough to find himself again, he was almost out of time once more! Panic threatened to break through the peaceful barrier of his Flow, but he wrestled it down. He held the spark firm, blazing bright in front of him, now finally under his control. And then, thinking it was the only right thing to do, he shoved it out of himself, and into his work. His eyes which had been half lidded over the entire time he was fighting with the spark, shot open fully just in time to see the spark exit him and saunter its way, slowly, towards the knife. It made contact, and his hammer hit it one last time. Then, something amazing happened.

From the point where the small light had landed, a ring of sparks sprayed out from under Will’s hammer. Except, unlike normal sparks, these didn’t fall to the floor and die out. Just like the original, these copies started twirling, full of whimsy, swirling through the air like drunk birds, seemingly unsure of where to go. So, just like before, Will tried to coerce them into returning to the knife. Only to find that none of them were budging even an inch into the direction he wanted them to! He furrowed his brow and tried again, attempting to assert his mind over the tiny motes of light, only to find himself utterly stumped. Maybe it was an issue of scale?

Instead of trying to control the entire swarm, he focused on one in particular, trying to drag it, ever so slightly, in the direction of the knife. And finally, even if it seemed to be moving painfully slowly, it budged. First, it ground to a halt in midair. And then, ever so slowly, it started to move towards the anvil, and its point of origin. Will wished he had paid more attention to the patterns of the motes in the first place, as even though he was trying to drag the thing straight into his knife, it insisted on taking a long, winding, erratic path, and if he was a betting man, he would have put his favorite hammer on the fact that it was moving in the same path it had before, just backwards! The other sparks were dying out, but the one Will was focusing on stayed bright, right up until it vanished under his hammer again... and then that was that.

There was no grand fanfare, no more shining lights, no gods speaking down to him for having touched on the divine. None of that. Instead, his focus slipped away, along with the hammer out of his hand, and without his Flow, the panic came crashing in, the uncertainty threatening to crush him under its sheer mass. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted an explanation for what in the nine hells had just happened.

And then, much more insidious than simple panic, fear slowly crept into his heart. He was shaken to his very core. He had done something he couldn’t understand, that very possibly no one could understand, and as beautiful, as truly right it had felt in the moment, it felt alien now. What if there was something wrong with him? What if his family shunned him? Where would he go? What would he do? And just like that, he couldn’t be there anymore. He needed answers, and he knew none in his family could give them to him. If either of his family members could do this, they would have told him, right?

But they couldn’t do this. He could. And he needed to know why. So, even as Anyas voice cut through the noise in his head, asking him why he had dropped his hammer, if he was okay, he didn’t listen. He grabbed the blade he had made. And without looking back, he stormed out into the pouring rain. Charlie would know. He was smarter than him. Smarter than anyone he knew. He had to know.