Work Text:
Kashima swings her leg over and slides off the saddle, landing on the ground with a thud that sends up a small cloud of dirt into the air around her boots. Already she can feel the heat radiating from the furnace, warming the cool air of the courtyard to something almost pleasant. But smoke pours from the chimney and she knows that inside the smithy it’ll be unbearably sweltering dressed as she is for the chill with her heavy cloak and mitts to stop her fingers freezing around the reins. She tugs off her gloves and shoves them in her saddlebag and then unfastens her cloak, slinging it over her arm. The few freezing seconds it’ll take to duck into the shop are worth not overheating once inside.
In the summer they throw the massive doors open to bare the interior of the smithy to the world, now though everything is shut tight save for the one door cracked open just wide enough to pass through. The rhythmic ring of metal striking metal, which outside had been dampened by thick stone walls, is almost deafening when she crosses the threshold. It’s dim inside, the air a little smoky, everything lit only by the glowing coals of the forge and the little bit of daylight that comes through.
And at the centre of everything is the forgemaster himself, Hori, hammering along the edge of a piece of glowing metal. By the way she can see the start of a taper forming, Kashima supposes it’ll be another sword. While the forge is fully operational, churning out tools and horseshoes and pieces of armour—Hori himself made her helmet—it’s renowned throughout the kingdom for the quality of its blades. And since her previous sword met an unfortunate and untimely end at the edge of a cliff, Kashima had commissioned a new one.
“If that’s my blade, you’re running a little late.” She says, leaning in the doorway. She’s teasing and they both know it; Hori’s never been anything but efficient with his work.
Still he tuts a noise of disapproval and glances up from his hammering momentarily. “Kashima.” He says by way of greeting, never as polite as her station should demand. It’s one of the things she likes about him. “I’ll go fetch yours in a moment. Just wait there.”
She watches as he turns from the anvil to the forge, pulling on the string that operates the bellows with one hand as he holds the blade in the coals with tongs in the other. His profile is serious, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in concentration as he watches the steel return to a bright orange-red glow. There’s something charming about it, entirely different to the ladies of the court or her fellow knights and their joking flirtations.
He’s gruff and short and plain, maybe a little mean. And the time she started picking up tools from his workbench he didn’t hesitate in smacking her hard upside the back of her head and scolding her, which, really, she could have punished him for. But despite it all she likes the way he spikes his hair messily out of his face, likes the way he rolls his eyes almost fondly when she arrives to have another dent knocked out of her armour, likes the way his broad shoulders move as he works the bellows even as sweat soaks a triangle down the back of his tunic.
Kashima loves watching him work. She’s always admired the way he can make something from almost nothing. A dull, dark bar of metal turns into a gleaming blade under the care of his hands, spending hours hammering and grinding and polishing. Sure she can swing the thing, can slay the beast and save the maiden but without his art she’s basically nothing. No guts, no glory, no girls. She’d probably be dragon food.
He’s back at the anvil, hammering what’s now beginning to resemble a blade flat with a steady, sure rhythm and Kashima is content to watch. Though she does duck a little further inside, leaning against the closed door to keep the chill wind off her back. Eventually he stops, puts his hammer down to the side and tilts the unfinished blade carefully in front of his eye level. She watches him examine it carefully and then his face shifts into that tiny, satisfied smile he gets with a job well done.
Hori places the blade back down on the anvil and looks up at her, tugging his leather gloves off one finger at a time as he does. “Right, I’ll go get your sword now.” No thanks for waiting, no apology for using her time. She should be mad but Kashima can’t find it in herself to be anything but pleased to have his attention finally. He tosses his gloves onto the bench as he wanders past towards the back corner of the shop, pushing his sleeves up over his elbows.
The back wall of the smithy is covered in racks, mostly filled with tools—tongs of all sizes, some larger hammers and various things of which she couldn’t hazard a guess towards their purpose—but some, at the far end, hold complete pieces awaiting claim. Hori reaches up, raising slightly onto his toes she notices with some amusement, to lift a sword down from where it hangs
Kashima meets him in the middle when he turns to walk back to her, eager to see her new sword. He holds it out across his body, one hand loosely gripping the hilt and a palm flat behind the blade itself, angled toward her. It’s beautiful, perhaps one of the most beautiful swords she’s ever seen. It’s not intricate, the pommel isn’t bejewelled, the crossguard isn’t carved and the handle is just wound around and around with plain strips of brown leather but there’s an elegance to it.
She pulls it from his fingers and brings it closer to admire the mesmerising way the light dances across the surface of the blade as she tilts it. In the narrow band of winter daylight streaming from the door it shines bright and silver and gleams ruby where it reflects the heart of the forge. It’s double-edged, the sides sharp enough to draw blood with ease when she tests them lightly with her thumb, and on the long end for a sword like this, tapering to a fine point. A furrow runs down the centre, keeping the blade light, and the handle is fine and narrow in a way that fits her hand perfectly. It’s delicate but, knowing Hori, there’s no sacrifice to the strength of the steel.
“It’s amazing.” She breathes, turning it around to look from all angles. When she looks up she’s surprised to see him smiling at her, posture relaxed even as his arms are crossed in front of his chest. She preens a little under his attention and straightens up, satisfaction at evoking a positive reaction coiling warmly in her chest.
“I know you like your swords on the lighter side so I tried to keep it as light as I could. And I noticed your old sword wasn’t quite balanced right, so I adjusted to your height and technique for this one. You’ll have been overcompensating for the last one so this should be easier to use, you’ll have to get used to it though. Also, here.” He uncrosses his arms and gestures for her to pass it back, suddenly all business again. She hands it over and he takes it with a little nod, placing the tip on the ground at his foot and pressing down lightly to demonstrate the flex of the blade. “This one is a little less flexible, so be careful.”
Kashima tilts her head and regards him curiously as he talks. She can’t recall ever mentioning her dislike of heavy blades to him but there was a definite possibility. Though he shooes away anyone lingering about the shop without a legitimate reason, meaning a social visit is pretty much out of the question, he’ll make conversation with her while she waits for him to patch her helmet or whilst he cuts her out of her breastplate, too badly dented to undo the straps. They talk mostly about his work or whatever she’d done to get her armour in such a state.
She likes the matter of fact way he talks to her and the way he explains the techniques he’s using, an excited, passionate edge creeping into his tone, when she asks him. She likes his irritated tone when she comes back too quickly after he’s fixed something to have him do it again and the incredulousness he expresses at her stories. At some point she started exaggerating the danger and daring of it all just to get a reaction, pleased each time he pauses his work to fix her with a look of disbelief or skepticism only for her to insist that it’s all true, cross her heart and watch his face shift to something just a little bit impressed.
And at some point she started making excuses to come in, a blade that’s just a little too dull or her horse needs new shoes or whatever little nonissue she could wring out of her equipment. He’d cottoned on to that pretty quickly though and told her, rather angrily, to come back when there was something proper to do and stop wasting his time with useless tasks. She figured losing her old sword to oblivion counted as enough reason to seek him out in the smithy again.
Hori offers the sword back to her and when she takes it the pads of his fingers trail over her hand, rough and warm. The touch is so light and so brief it can’t be anything but an accident. Kashima’s not even sure he noticed, given that he’s looking at her so blankly, but she feels like she’s burning up inside, the feeling stemming from the slightly sooty mark on the back of her hand.
“So?” He says, snapping her from her daze.
“It’s wonderful, Hori. A really good sword” She manages, too ruffled by her reaction to his touch to think of something more articulate. He looks satisfied enough though, eyes dropping from her face to the blade in her hand. She follows his gaze and turns the sword over a few times, watching the flash of the blade as she tries to think of something to say before he sends her away. Already she’s aware of him wandering back over the bench where he tossed his gloves and she knows her time is rapidly running out. Her mind supplies his earlier words about balance and technique and she lights up, latching onto that train of thought as the answer to her problems.
“Hey, Hori?” She looks up to see him turn from the anvil to her with a questioning noise, “You know a lot about how I fight. The sort of stuff you can only learn from watching me really closely.”
His expression shifts into something wary, the first few wisps of irritation floating threateningly on the edges, and Kashima feels herself beam smugly at having found something significant. Her veins are thrumming with something like anticipation, nervous or excited she’s not fully sure.
“You know, I think I’ve seen you watching me at the training grounds a few times.” She taps her chin in a mockery of thoughtfulness, looking up towards the ceiling to complete the picture of exaggerated contemplation. She fixes him with a sly smirk, tone turning teasing to cover how earnestly she’s wondering. “Is it because you like me?”
His reaction is immediate and explosive and everything she was expecting out of teasing him. He flushes red right up his neck to his hairline, the vein at his temple pulsing as he sputters out a series of unintelligible indignant noises and syllables before he finds something to yell at her. “Of course not! It’s an important part of the process, you idiot. How else am I meant to make you a good sword? You’re nothing but a pain in my backside.”
As he shouts he advances on her steadily and Kashima matches his pace, stepping backwards even though she knows he’s essentially shepherding her toward the door. He’s shaking his gloves at her, fist clenched tight around them, and she’s seen it enough times to know it’s a threat though not a very severe one. When she’s in the doorway, Hori stops and gestures with his other hand, making a shoo motion. “Go on, go away. And don’t come back. I don’t want to see your stupid face again.”
Kashima grins, stepping one foot neatly back over the threshold, “But, Hori, we both know that’s not true. Because you like me so much.” She says brightly and then immediately ducks out the door and dashes across the courtyard back to her horse, laughing delightedly the whole way at his angry, wordless exclamation and the sound of his gloves smacking against the dirt floor where she’d been standing.