The morning broke pale and sharp, the air filled with the sound of rooks wheeling above the frost-hardened fields. The church bells tolled softly in the distance, calling the few villagers to prayer, though the lovers remained in the little chamber above the clergyman's hearth.
The girl rose first, her hair unbound and falling over her shoulders like a dark veil. She moved quietly so as not to wake her beloved, yet he stirred at the faint rustle of her gown. His eyes opened, and in them there shone both weariness and resolve.
"Did you sleep?" she asked gently.
"Sounder than I have in many nights," he replied, though the truth was that his slumber had been broken by dreams of hunger, of wandering roads, of her face pale with fatigue. Still, he smiled faintly, unwilling that she should see the shadows in his mind.
They descended to the kitchen, where the clergyman sat with a bowl of porridge and a great leather-bound Bible beside him. He greeted them warmly, urging them to eat. When the simple meal was finished, he laid a hand upon the young man's shoulder.
"I spoke last evening with Thomas the smith," he said. "His arm has grown weaker with age, and his apprentice left him two months past. He will take you, if you are willing to labour hard."
The young man's heart quickened. It was no noble profession, no fine calling such as he had once been bred to, but it was work—honest work—and it meant he might place bread upon the table by his own effort. He bowed his head, saying simply, "I am willing."
---
The smithy stood at the edge of the village, a low building of stone, its roof blackened by years of smoke. Within, the heat of the forge drove back the chill of winter, and the air rang with the rhythm of hammer upon iron. Thomas, the blacksmith, was a broad man with arms like tree-trunks and a beard streaked with grey. He eyed the newcomer with suspicion at first, as though doubting that hands so unused to toil could prove of service.
"Have you strength?" he asked, thrusting a bar of iron into the flames until it glowed red.
The young man nodded.
"Then prove it. Hold this, and strike when I tell you."
Thus began his labour. Hour upon hour he bent to the anvil, the hammer heavy in his grasp, his shoulders aching with the unfamiliar strain. Sweat ran down his temples despite the cold, and the muscles of his back burned with each stroke. Yet he uttered no complaint. The thought of the girl, waiting in the clergyman's cottage with hope newly kindled in her eyes, was strength enough.
By midday his palms were blistered, his arms trembling. Thomas grunted approval, though his words were rough. "Not bad for a gentleman's hand. Keep at it, and you'll earn your bread."
---
When the day's labour ended, he returned to the cottage with a small pouch of coins in his pocket. Never had metal felt so heavy, not even when he once handled sums far greater in his father's house. These were not gifts, nor the remnants of charity; they were the fruit of sweat and toil, the proof of his own endurance.
The girl met him at the door, her eyes bright though her frame still frail. When he placed the coins upon the table, she touched them reverently, as though they were treasure.
"You did this," she whispered, pride and tenderness mingling in her tone. "With your own hands."
He caught her hand in his, his voice low with emotion. "It is little, but it is ours. No one can strip it from us."
That evening, they ate bread purchased from the village baker—plain, coarse bread, but to them it was sweeter than any feast they had once known. She broke it in half, offering him the larger portion, but he refused until she had taken her share. As they ate, the firelight flickered upon her face, casting shadows that softened the hollows of her cheeks.
---
Days passed, and each morning he returned to the forge. His arms grew surer, his strokes more steady. The blisters upon his hands hardened into calluses, and with them his pride deepened—not the hollow pride of former wealth, but the solid pride of one who earns what he consumes.
The villagers, who had at first looked on with suspicion, began to regard him with new respect. They saw in him not a wanderer living on pity, but a man of perseverance. Some greeted him as he passed, offering nods of approval; others spoke quietly of the girl, whose gentleness and modesty won their hearts.
And though their existence remained humble, there was in it a dignity that neither cruelty nor exile could extinguish.
---
One evening, after a long day at the forge, he returned to find her seated by the window, sewing with the clergyman's housekeeper. The fading light touched her hair with a golden glow, and her needle moved deftly, stitching a garment for some village child. When she saw him, she rose swiftly, her eyes alight.
"You are weary," she said, guiding him to a chair. "Rest, and I shall bring water for your hands."
As she bathed his blistered palms with gentle care, he watched her face, and a thought rose within him that filled his soul with fire. "If I must labour every day until my body breaks, so long as you are beside me, I shall count it joy."
Her eyes met his, glistening, and she pressed his roughened hands to her lips. "Then we are richer than kings," she whispered.
---
That night, as they lay once more upon the straw mattress, the wind howled beyond the window. But within, the little room was warm, filled not merely with the glow of the hearth but with a deeper flame—the flame of hope rekindled, of dignity restored, of love made stronger by hardship.
For the first time since their exile, they drifted to sleep not in fear of tomorrow, but in quiet confidence that, whatever trials yet awaited, they had taken the first true step towards life rebuilt—bread by his own hands, love by her unwavering faith.