THE FORGE | LATE AFTERNOON
Not because she didn’t believe them, no that truth was well and truly established, but more to just understand.
Understanding why.
There had to be a reason, a clocking substantial reason why Gale had blurted their relationship with Rhys to the hurting and scared Seventen whilst the two got sickenly drunk in the forge. Was it that Gale was lonely? Or did the knowledge eat at them so much they simply had to get it off their chest? It could have gone unsaid, it just could have. Then, her troubled gal—wick wouldn’t be beating himself up over something he’d never had control over.
It made her angry. An unnecessary strain on the poor man. A dangerous secret now made known.
Huddled into a newly purchased cream coat she had obtained in Elmonton, hiding in the thick pale winter hingle fur that lined the hood that was drawn up to hide her pale hair, the galdor made her way through Vienda using very public and very busy streets. It frightened her, and every green finery that caught her eye caused the woman to catch her breath, afraid any given moment a firm hand would snatch her by the arm and drag her screaming back to Damen’s manor. It never did though, and ignored as just another face in the crowd, Charity D’Arthe soon found herself at the doors of what she hoped was this forge Gale busied themselves in.
“Mi—Mister Saunders?” She tripped over the inaccurate title as she pushed open the heavy door, knocking and peering curiously into the unfamiliar place. She’d never seen a forge before, in fact she barely knew what a forge was for, so the woman could only assume it was the right place as she glanced at various metalworked implements hanging from the ceiling or leaning against the wall.
“Mister Saunders, it’s Charity D’Arthe. Are you here?” The violet eyed woman contracted her field, trying to appear less threatening, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the late afternoon sunlight as easily as it caught motes of dust floating in the air. Reaching to close the door behind her once she stepped inside, Charity drew back her hood, tucking her hands into the fur lined sleeves of the long winter coat to resist the urge to run her fingertips over the workmanship in the shop.
“I only wish to talk, if you’ll spare me a few moments.” The short blonde said softly, turning away from the forge itself to follow the metal shapes on the walls. She was nervous, it was stupid not to be. There had been no love lost between herself and the human, and even more so Charity was still the enemy. Rhys was a wick now, and a brother. Charity was still a galdor, no matter who she loved and what her situation was. Everything she did or said was nothing to Gale. They saw her as the oppressor her people were, regardless of her personal feelings.
This was supposed to be a peaceful chat, but the blonde wondered idly to herself just how long it would be that way. She let out a slow breath, reminding herself that being angry at the human wouldn’t help.
Clocks, she should just go. This was a moony idea.