The hammer came down in a rhythm befitting the skill of its wielder. It had only been a few months since his apprentice had embarked on his pilgrimage, and Moloney’s workshop looked all the worse for it. The man had always struggled to keep his workshop in a presentable state, and it showed. Failed blades, scabbards, hilts, and accountraments littered the ground in small piles or just waywardly tossed about on the floor. It was a sheer miracle the man had yet to injure himself navigating the minefield. And yet despite the sorry state his shop was in, his hammer continued to swing.

The shop's main door opened in time with the overhead bell. Mr. Walsh took a few steps in, looked around, and let out a small sigh. The faint sound of clashing metal filled his ears. “Still holed up in here.” He navigated through the ambient lit storefront and to the workshop door. Opening it was a trial in itself, forcing the hunter to put in far more strength than he thought he’d need to push the debris out of the way. “Maloney!” The man shouted from the entrance to no answer. He gave it another try, and another, before giving up and entering the smoldering battlefield.

Maloney had long since abandoned his shirt, choosing to only wear his dingey apron, trousers, and work boots. As the father got a better look, he was stunned by the sheer focus the smith's eyes demonstrated. He wasn’t ignoring the calls, or simply too old to hear them. He couldn’t hear them because of the concentration he was under. Mr. Walsh gave a smile and leaned on the bench.

The man waited for a few minutes before Maloney finished his current project. The sweaty smith gave it a quick inspection and let out a disappointed snort before tossing it away. “Worthless.” He barked. Turning to begin the process again he caught the guest and raised a brow. “Yah need somethin’?”

“Sort of.” He smiled. “I was going to deliver a message, but now I’m kinda curious about what's gotten you so worked up.”

“Just a job.”

“From Killian?”

“Yeah.”

“I haven’t seen him since Kieren went off to the Scar. Did he come back?”

“Yeah, for a night. Left me with a job and high tailed it out before sunrise.” Maloney rolled his eyes. “Persistent nuisance, I’ll give ‘im that.”

“What's the job?”

Maloney gave a laugh and placed his hand on the table. “Practice.” With a shake of his head he added: “Bastards got gall.”

The father blinked in confusion and looked around the room. “The hell could he be telling you to practice for?”

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“Somethin’ big ‘corrdin’ to him. Think he called it “job of mah life” or somethin’.” The smith shrugged. “I’ll humor him. Ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

Walsh gave a chuckle at the comment. “You could have something better to do. A friend of the wife wanted me to see if you were free sometime soon.”

“She need somethin’ made?”

“No, no I don’t think so.”

“The hell she need me for then?”

Through his deadpan expression the father gave a single blink. “Conversation, for starters.”

“Good, then you do it.”

“I’m married.”

Maloney raised a brow. “She not lettin’ yah talk now? Rough one, ain’t she?”

“That’s not-” The fathers eye twitched involuntarily for a moment before he let out a defeated sigh. “If you need some company or some fresh air, let me know alright?”

“Sure. Won’t need it, but sure. Anythin’ else?”

With a shake of his head and a wave of his hand the man gave a smile. “Impossible as always. Nope. I’ll leave you to it.”

The two exchanged a nod and Mr. Walsh navigated the minefield of failures to the exit. Once he had confirmed his guest had left, Maloney unclasped his bloody and worn hands. He rubbed them together, then across his apron, spat on them, and finally took hold of his tools.

He hadn’t been entirely truthful, but then again how could he? The job he was given was something out of a fairy tail- an impossible task for even the most experienced smith. And yet, despite the near insurmountable mountain before him, he couldn’t help but get excited. Every cell in his body felt like freshly stoked coals. His family built this town, and he had always thought his fate was to simply be its caretaker. Not anymore. With his own two hands he’d forge the impossible.

“You wanna make ‘im one out of a calamity eh?” The question he possessed months ago bounced into his mind as a reinvigorated grin crested the horizon of his beard. “I don’t know what yah both are doin’, but it don’t matter one bit.”

He was a simple man. He had spent his entire life fascinated by the heat of a kiln and the delicate yet violent finesse of metal shaping. He learned everything about the forge and even as much woodworking as he possibly could from his father. And to repay that debt he built his old man his casket. He led a simple life of pursuing his passion and rarely ever feeling truly challenged. Yet when he saw those boys eyes, and the innocent fascination they held, he felt like he understood what his father had felt. He didn’t need a kid of his own, too much trouble. But Kieren? He’d treat him like his own flesh and blood. And if Killian wanted the impossible forged for that boy, he’d damn well deliver it with a bow around it.

If they were giving their all, so would he. If they were working themselves to the bone, then he’d respond in kind. As he stared down the endless path of improvement he found himself overcome with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt before.

“When you finally need it, I’ll be itchin’ to show you just what these old bones can do.”

And so he worked- his eyes glimmering with the same child-like focus he had watching his father all those years ago. He was challenged. He was excited. But most of all, he was happy.