His name was ------

He used to say that I was the best there was when it came to mocking god with the beauty of my creations. Every time we met, that man would grin and tease me about how I was too good at art to even be human.

Well, joke’s on him.

He died one-hundred and sixty years ago, and I still live on, working away at this and that, honing and perfecting each and every craft I can get my hands on. I may be alone, but this, creating and crafting and building and bending and breaking raw materials into the shapes and forms I require to get the outcome I desire, is all I ever really needed.

I have been commissioned by god and man alike, all of them desiring to so much as lay their eyes upon my work. I take those that interest me and leave those that don’t, as is my right… It’s not like I could focus on anything that didn’t interest me in the first place, afterall.

Today my task is to take blackened iron and forge it anew, make it become a sword that shines brighter than any other. The client has allowed me to use whatever alloys I choose, as long as the sword can reflect what needs to be seen. I knew what to do, what is what I always do: expirement until my hands are raw and my mind is made of cotton, then create a finished piece. Doodle, Noodle, and Bam, is how I jokingly describe the process.

Was it I who said those words?

Surely it was, who else could be so full of whimsy yet strangely descriptive?

Hammer to metal and metal to fire, only to meet the hammer again. I beat and bend and crush and heat; the effort of the blaze does not go unnoticed, I feed it time and again with wood and coal and things that it can burn to blaze all the brighter. The smell of heated metal and blood are remarkably similar, and they bleed together in the song of metal that strikes metal.

Another day, another job complete, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

It isn't.

Which is exactly why I do it.

A sword sold and gold received makes my forge cool and my pockets heavy. A day on the town, I believe, will be all the rest I need. Looking at bits and bobs of glass and plastic, jars and boxes and coins and trinkets - the little shiny things I can see here and there are what make my world go around. A man stares at me, and I'm reminded of something. Or was it someone? A person with eyes like lightning and a laugh like thunder. Or am I just remembering the storm last week, the one that shook my house like it wanted to get inside and eat me?

I break eye contact and walk away briskly. Not because I'm uncomfortable or afraid, just because I saw the bakery and was reminded rather loudly by my stomach that I had yet to eat today, or in the days prior.

The bakery is an old one, older than even I. It's been run by the same family for generations, and their skill with the oven and the things that make the dough have only grown. My mouth waters at the thought of tasting their latest creation before I even enter, so enter I do. The woman at the counter reminds me of her predecessors, and her husband does much the same. Remembering names and faces was never my strong suit, even less so as the years dragged on. They smile and hand over the baked goods, I praise their magnificent abilities and pay, our usual song and dance. What is unusual is how busy the place is today. The building is packed to the brim with people standing and sitting around to eat bread, such delicious bread, so I ask if anything is changed from the last time I was here.

"We got a new table boy, and he's quite the looker!" the Baking Woman replies.

"He has this scar down his face, so I was worried he was up to no good," the Baking Man leans in, ever the gossip, "but he's a real down-to-earth, hard working fella!" I can't help but be surprised by this. The Baking Man almost never praises anyone but his own family, so clearly this new table boy is nothing short of a paragon of virtue. I look around, but cannot spot a new face.

"If you're curious about him, he's actually got the day off. Come back tomorrow, we'll introduce you to him." The Baking Couple say in unison. Which is definitely normal and not at all unsettling.

Forced to fight the crowd, I work my way outside, brandishing my elbows like the swords I so often create. I cradle my precious goods to my chest and find myself a place to sit, hoping that the breads I had went through the effort of buying were intact. Indeed, they were round and fluffy and warm, just as when I had bought them.

Halfway through my bread ecstacy, I'm interrupted by a messenger boy, panting and huffing from the long run from wherever. "Mister Weaver, you have a request from some person that's a real big thing!" the boy seems likely to collapse at any moment, so I wave him towards the other end of the bench. He sits, and I interrogate him on who could possibly be bothering me on my day off.

"I don't know sir, just that I've never seen someone so good looking in my whole life!" he finally answers, having caught the breath that escaped him. I stare at the boy for a long moment, deciding whether or not to be offended by his comment. Is his judgement impaired from lack of oxygen? Did sweat get in his eyes? Here I am, sitting before him, and he's saying that I'm not the best looking? "At any rate sir, the fella said you knew him real good and that he'd be waiting at your house. That's the whole message!"

By this point, I've resigned myself to putting off my day off. I make my way home, and see a large man waiting there. Someone with eyes like lightning and a grin that electricutes me all the same. Surely, I'd remember someone like this?

At the lack of recognition in my face, the smile gives way to something soft and sad, but even that doesn't last long as it makes way for anger.

"Do you really not remember me?" he asks softly, voice as tense as the rest of him.

I don't remember him. I should, I know I should, but so many years of the same routine have worn away the edges of what I was and left behind something that only knew how to create. I hesitate a bit. "I'm afraid I don't. What's your name?"

"It's-