[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]
The sound of Matt’s hammer against metal echoed softly down the hill as Phelan trudged up toward the forge. His thoughts were a maelstrom and he was still kicking himself—hard—for being so blunt and so straightforward with Kellin about what he’d sensed, about what he’d come to realize.
He’d been too blunt and too straightforward and now he wasn’t sure if he’d upset some sort of delicate equilibrium she’d crafted for herself.
No, that’s a lie. I know I’ve upset the equilibrium and that was a dangerous proposition. I should have had more tact, been more careful.
It had just been so damned startling and she’d been the one to ask, after all.
I’m a bleeding idiot sometimes. Maybe I really am cracked. Maybe something really did go south somewhere along the line and I just haven’t realized that it did or what it was yet.
Matt was alone in the forge when Phelan ducked inside and barely glanced up when he did. Phelan slipped past him to take over the bellows, peering at the piece on the anvil.
“Didn’t feel like casting arrowheads,” Matt said, watching as Phelan pumped the bellows, forcing more air into the embers. He gestured slightly and Phelan stopped, letting Matt thrust the piece back into the coals to heat again for more shaping to come. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m all right.”
Matt just stared at him in the dim of the forge, eyes narrowing slightly. Phelan managed a sheepish smile.
“It’s all over my face, isn’t it?”
“I’m thinking only a few of us would be able to read it and recognize it for what it is,” Matt said, glancing to the embers again and the half-formed sword heating in them. “What’s eating at you this time?”
“I told Kellin something.”
“I told her about Atlantis.”