Tessera - Red
Geberic luxuriated in the quiet of the hunting lodge in Faventia when the nobles were away. Miles away from Ravenna, tucked in the woods, he stoked the fire in the forge. No drunken revels, no friends of the king getting lost in the woods. A pair of doves pecked outside his shed.
He plunged the bar of iron into the fire and waited until it turned red and then yellow.
Every once in a while, like today, he wondered what happened to the knives he made. Who would buy them? Where would they go? Each knife was like a bit of his life made up of the days of heating and hammering, heating again, shaping, the tang, the point, smoothing, hammering, plunging into water, polishing. If he saw the knife again he would remember the days, what had happened, who was nearby, and what season
