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"Shake off that glum face, Artus," Milisant strode into his workroom with a bucket of water. "Your favorite knight has returned from his quest."
"Ser Cristoff?" Artus asked immediately, wiping the sweat from his face with one large forearm as he set down his hammer.
"Ha! So you admit it!" Milisant said slyly, cowed not at all by her brother's glower, perhaps the only other in the village - besides Ser Cristoff - who remained unintimidated by Artus's taciturn nature and frightening appearance (a "great, shaggy bear" a maiden from the village had called him long ago when he shyly expressed permission to court her).
The water sizzled and steamed as Artus cooled the buckle he had been shaping. Milisant moved about the room, chattering about the great procession which had accompanied Ser Cristoff, how dashing he had looked in his armor, his sand-blonde hair sifting in the breeze as he bent to receive flowery offerings from his admirers.
"There was a fine lady accompanying him," Milisant said blithely, and Artus stiffened. "They say there will be a wedding in the keep by the end of this month."
Ser Cristoff? With a bride? Artus chased away the feeling of heaviness in his chest. Of course one as beloved and kind as Cristoff would find a lady befitting his station. Artus should be happy for him, would be happy for the knight.
Cristoff was, after all, the closest that Artus had to a friend in this castle. The two had first become acquainted when Cristoff's horse had thrown a shoe, and Artus's was the only smithy for days. Cristoff had been chatty and bright while Artus shoed his mare, feeding him sly, flirtatious compliments and making his head spin with the unfamiliar attention. Flustered, Artus had gruffly told Cristoff to quiet himself to that Artus could concentrate, a measure of rudeness that would have had a more tempestuous knight drawing his sword.
But Cristoff had only laughed, the sweet amusement in his eyes so beautiful that Artus had nearly dropped his hammer on his own foot.
"My apologies," Cristoff said, holding up his palms. "I am loquacious to a fault, but I shall endeavor to keep my admirations to myself."
Instead, Cristoff had made a seat for himself in the corner of the smithy, seemingly immune to the swelter of the fire and the unpleasant noises as he watched Artus work with a warm expression. Artus had been discomfited by the gaze, but also strangely excited by it, his heart thundering in his chest and his grip uncharacteristically slippery. It was by only the grace of the gods that the shoe was shaped and Cristoff and his beloved mare could make it back to the keep in one piece.
"You have my gratitude," Cristoff said after, and clasped Artus's hand in his own, pressed against his armored chest. The warmth of that parting lingered long after, though Artus was certain he would never again meet the strange, over-familiar knight.
Then Cristoff returned to the door of his smithy a fortnight later. And again, and again, ever with an excuse to patch a pot or fix a clasp, errands Artus would have thought to be beneath Cristoff's station. And when the generous offer came for Artus to take over the empty smithy at Cristoff's keep, he thought he knew who to thank.
Artus still did not know why the knight bothered to seek his attention. Perhaps it was some jest - Cristoff was fond of flustering Artus with earnest compliments and casual physical affection, ever finding some excuse to squeeze at Artus's bicep, or throw an arm around his shoulder. Though Artus told himself it meant nothing, just the press of Cristoff's skin was enough to make him flush with longing, feeling starved for more. He tried to steel himself against Cristoff's charming nature, which Artus told himself was given equally to everyone, but the knight was undeterred by Artus's gruffness, so sunny and persistent that Artus could do little to prune his growing infatuation.
"I should ... make a wedding present," Artus muttered, wondering at the hollow feeling in his chest. He thought that he had long accepted that he would die with his secret longing, the shameful nights when he dreamed of Cristoff's body against his under the covers of his cold, lonely bed.
"What a marvelous idea!" Milisant clasped her hands in glee, blind to Artus's turmoil.
--
Cristoff stopped by the next day, but Artus convinced Milisant to use her power of chatter to bar the knight from entering the smithy. The pieces of the Cristoff's wedding gift were scattered about the room, after all, and it had little to do with Artus not wishing to face the object of his hopeless love.
It had taken Artus the better part of a day to decide what to make. He was no jeweler, and did not think Cristoff's new bride would be thrilled with a set of new pauldrons. Nor would she have much use for kitchenwear or tools. He almost talked himself out of making a gift altogether, but since the banns had been read, the village had become a-flutter with preparations for the wedding. The baker was rumored to be working on a cake taller than any man in the keep, while the tailor had ordered gold thread from two cities over for his meticulous embroidery and the huntsmen bragged loudly of the fat brace of pheasants he would offer for the wedding banquet. It would be shameful for Artus to represent his smithy poorly, Milisant had scolded him.
So Artus bent himself to the construction of his gift, allowing it to distract him from the lingering pain in his chest, his foolish hopes which were dying a well-deserved death. For four days, Artus devoted himself utterly to his creation, outside of the work which commonly kept him busy around the keep. It did well to prevent him from hearing or seeing much of Cristoff or his bride-to-be.
But Artus could not avoid the knight forever. Nearly a week after Cristoff's return home, Artus startled at the sound of a familiar knock upon the smithy door. For a moment, he panicked, but Milisant had gone to run an errand on the other side of town, and with the way she loved to gossip with the butcher's girl, she wouldn't be back until sundown.
The knock came again, and Artus knew that lingering any longer would only be ill-mannered, so he set down his hammer and reluctantly answered. Though it was a sweltering summer day, Artus was still taken aback upon opening the door to see the fair-haired knight unarmored, his tunic unlaced and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His nut-brown skin glistened with sweat, but his smile upon seeing Artus was bright as ever.
"Oh good," Cristoff said, sighing shortly as he stepped inside the door. "I thought you were avoiding me." Immediately, he began fanning himself, looking pained. "Sweet Sol's milkteeth, it's hot in here!"
"It's a smithy," Artus said bluntly, but he waved Cristoff to the back door. "We can talk outside."
Cristoff seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when he stepped into Artus's small, green yard, which was shaded by a large oak tree. Lowering himself into a bench, Cristoff silently watched as Artus drew a bucket of water from the well and brought it to the light.
"Thank you," Cristoff said gratefully, drinking deeply from the pitcher, then upending the rest over his head.
Artus felt his mouth go dry at the sparkling droplets in Cristoff's hair, gleaming like crystals under the summer sun, the clear of Cristoff's blue eyes slicing Artus's heart as neatly as a dripping fruit.
"Oh that feels so much better," Cristoff sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I've spent so much time in the mountains, you know, that I forgot how hot it gets here in the summer."
Artus turned away, grunting in reply as he took his own mouthful of cold water before returning the bucket to the well.
"So," Cristoff said when Artus turned back to him, his hands flexing on his knees. "Why have you been avoiding me?
Artus saw no reason to lie. "I have been crafting a present for the new Lady of the manor."
Cristoff raised his eyebrow. "You have, have you."
Artus gestured to him, and Cristoff followed. In the barn near the smithy, where they kept the horses waiting for new shoes, was a standing piece about height to Artus's waist, covered with a plain cloth.
"My," Cristoff said, raising his eyebrows, a surprised half-smile on his face. "What could this be, I wonder?"
Silently, Artus drew off the cloth and Cristoff's eyes grew wide.
Cristoff was a well-traveled knight, and over their years of friendship, he had graced Artus with many a story of the wonders he had seen. One story which he returned to again and again, particularly when he was deep in his cups, was of islands in the North, their strange, deep canals and high, rolling hills.
When you crest them, Cristoff would say, his eyes shining in memory, you see naught but great, creaking wheels. Like beasts with wings of red lacquer, spinning in the wind.
Artus had accomplished but a miniature version of this, cut in bronze and copper, each wing as thin as a sheet of parchment, with metal vines entwining the legs of the stand underneath. As there was no wind this day, Artus pushed the mechanism with his own hand, sunlight scattering dizzily across the shiny blades.
Cristoff's mouth fell slightly open, but he remained silent.
"It is not fine enough," Artus said stiffly, his hand clenching to a fist at his side.
"No," Cristoff said hurriedly, glancing to Artus with a strange smile. "I ... Annabelle will love this."
Artus inclined his head, feeling a pang at the sound of the Lady's name upon Cristoff's lips. "She will ... make you a beautiful bride," Artus said quietly, pulling the cloth back over the small windmill.
Cristoff blinked, then broke into a smile. As Artus looked in surprise, Cristoff began laughing.
"Oh! I- ... I was wondering why you were so elusive these days!" Cristoff stepped forward and clapped a warm hand on Artus's shoulder. "There has been a terrible misunderstanding, I'm afraid. Annabelle has not travelled all this way to wed me ... she is betrothed to my brother."
Artus blinked in confusion, and Cristoff stepped closer, the smile still lingering about his mouth.
"Charles is obligated to marry, his duty fated to provide an heir for this title. I, on the other hand, am naught but an inconsequential third son, with no title and hardly a coin to his name." Cristoff took a breath, appearing uncharacteristically nervous. "Besides, it is well known to my family that my affections are entangled elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" Artus rasped, and Cristoff reached up his hand, tracing the half-moon scar under Artus's cheek with the tip of one finger. Such a delicate touch, yet it sent a burning flush through Artus's body. Even when Cristoff took back his hand, Artus still felt the ghost of it upon his skin.
"I suggest you find another present for Annabelle and Charles," Cristoff said, his voice low as his eyes fell to Artus's lips. "I'm afraid I must have this ... at any cost."
Slowly, clumsily, Artus leaned down, just enough for Cristoff to slot their lips together.
It is yours, Artus wished to say. It was always yours.
But as always, it seemed that Cristoff understood him entirely without words.