Bedrock was cold.
Very cold.
So cold that the coals burning in the corner of the room nearly crackled out with every breath too harsh.
A small room, a bunker of sorts, was filled with that cold chill, nestled away into the depths of the ground.
The discordant ringing of tempering metal hit the open air.
Metal on metal, clashing- clanging and sharpening- molting and re-tempering.
The noises vaguely echoed on the barren walls, and did nothing to pause the creator who brought the sounds into existence.
Clang- clang-
Temper-
Pause.
Repeat.
Onto the anvil- hammer sweeping down- brandishing each line of written book enchantment further into the depths of the sword, patting down the spell till even from a peripheral view, the sword made its purple glow radiant and abundantly obvious.
Things in nature have bright colors to warn of danger.
A warning that said, 'Come at me on your own peril.'
A warning that every peice of enchantment helped slather onto the sword in his hand.
The maker of that sword was just as brightly colored.
Pink hair swooping out of the harshly pulled together braid, elegant even in disarray-
Bright.
Bright color.
And a very harsh warning- with boundless strength behind his frame, body just as dangerous as the sword he dipped into the slack tub.
The sizzling of the cooling enchantments hushed the room, and Technoblade hunched over the anvil.
His colorful hair fell farther into his face, dull red eyes peering at the cracks that formed onto the anvil as his newly crafted sword sat cooling in the water.
He sighed.
He squinted.
He stood up straight.
Something was amiss inside of him.
Every voice in his head grew louder and louder the closer he got to finishing the newly sculpted sword.
Louder and louder- screaming with joy and ceaselessly parading around the fact that the sword wasn't for himself.
With a cautionary dip of his fingers into the water, he tested how hot the netherite sword was- humming when it was cooled before twisting it out of the slack tub with a graceful twirl of his hand.
He brandished it into the light- staring into the newly placed enchantments, holding it up to gaze at it's unfinished frame.
No handle yet attached, merely the bare blade.
Perhaps...
He wondered to himself.
Perhaps this would do.
He no longer knew why he was doing this.
It began as a baseless fiddling of his hands- then the burning itch and need to do something. Make something. Put his skills to use rather then sit and rest.
So he put himself to use. And a part of him knew how heavily influenced his decision was- but he started making it regardless.
Huffing- again- he stared at the rough edges of the netherite sword.
YOU ARE READING
Swallow Your Affection
RomanceYou were a recruit, asked to join a rebellion you didn't believe in- to fight against people you didn't know- all the while carrying around the knowledge and the secret that... You couldn't die. Not without extra steps. . . . . . .
