Chapter Text
“Well, you gonna take it or not?”
“Y-yes! Yes of course! Thank you, sir!”
The burly, dark-haired blacksmith before him grimly sneered down his nose at the poor Branded as he took the sword in his shaking grip. It was the first time August had held a blade of this caliber. Was it lighter than he had expected or heavier? Was the handle plain or was it understated?
And…what kind of sword was it anyway?
The Hideaway’s light, such as it was, bore down from above and danced on the sword’s edge. The old cook he used to talk with, Sheila, had an eye for these things. Sharp blades, that is. Their master Marcus—old master, that is; he was dead you see—liked his veggies sliced very thin. Being unfit to enter the kitchen, he used to watch Sheila through the window. Through it, Sheila would explain to young August her order of operations as head cook. However, she never invited him in. Sheila said it was best for the both of them.
This was the closest he had been to a sword, now that he thought about it. The way the light shimmered on this here blade here was how it shimmered on Sheila’s carving knife too! So that must mean this is a good sword, right?
During his days as a Branded in Sanbreque, August was only allowed a small scythe, which had to be turned in at the end of his day’s labors. The guards mostly kept to themselves—even when they went back to their shacks at the end of their labors. August would watch them huddled around their campfires as he worked late after sunset. Shadows would intercept that tiny flickering dot on the side of the hill, while August worked his patch of the field alone. He always wondered what stories they would tell each other, or even, if they had to since they were such good friends and all and largely spent all their time together.
“Why are you holding it like that?” The blacksmith’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms.
“Like what?” August answered, abundantly aware of his grip on the leather-wrapped handle. The blade was pointed down toward his toes, upside down in his enthusiastic handling.
The blacksmith reached out and reoriented August’s hands, turning the blade right side up and sliding August’s hands up the shaft nearer to the part that formed a cross with the blade. August swallowed as he watched the blacksmith do his thing.
“The pommel will help maintain balance only if your form is correct. Hold it by the very bottom of the hilt and you’ll lose all stability,” the blacksmith snarled. His dark eyes ran up and down August’s slim, wiry frame. August shivered a bit as the larger man’s eyes traced his form beneath his tunic.
“Would be a fuckin’ silly way to die—getting the blade knocked right out of your hands and another jabbed into your lower intestines.”
“Y-yes, I’m aware. Quite silly.”
“And,” the blacksmith stroked his chin, “you said you used to be a guard for your old master?”
“Indeed! Yeah, I was the head of the guard, in fact.” Shit. August hadn’t meant to say that. He only wanted to reassure the built man before him, to let him know that this blade would be put to good use.
Looking at the blacksmith’s rugged features, August saw no sign of a brand, only a mysterious patch of scarring on his left temple. The man was putting his strength to use for the good of the cause, likely giving up everything in the process. He couldn’t let this man’s noble sacrifice be in vain.
“Right,” the blacksmith trailed off. Crisis averted!
“My name is August, by the by,” he said, extending a shaky hand out to the man before him.
Only the blacksmith’s eyes acknowledged the gesture. “Blackthorne.”
“I’m certain we will get to know each other very well,” August said, tipping the end of the sword toward Blackthorne, whose eyes widened as it drew near. “I will be back for new blades once these others are dashed and shattered against Imperial skulls,” his throat was dry, “and monsters and what-have-you.”
“‘Shattered?’” Blackthorne asked, enunciating both syllables with a grimace. His brow wrinkled deeply as he repeated the word. “What do you mean ‘shattered?”
“Why of course! The final climactic blow in the name of freedom!” August continued. “A warrior…uhm, needs to be prepared to put everything on the line, you see. F-for the cause.”
The blacksmith’s cast a dismissive glance at August’s grip. August followed his gaze. His knuckles were white. And was he really trembling that much? A chill ran down his spine. In neat rows behind Blackthorne hung numerous swords of unfamiliar sizes and shapes, all the result of Blackthorne’s painstaking dedication.
August could tell he was mad. What a fool he was. Why on earth couldn’t he just shut up? Blackthorne’s mouth twisted into a scowl, his eyes running up and down the quivering blade in August’s grip.
What scolding would he get this time?
“Who’s next?” the blacksmith barked, addressing another former Branded over August’s shoulder. He again followed the blacksmith’s gaze. August’s jaw dropped at the queue which had formed behind him. Two of his fellow freed Branded whispered to each other, their glances difficult to read.
August stood there, still holding the blade’s handle in the precise way the Blackthorne had shown him. He would make of himself a noble warrior, defending the downtrodden, liberating his peers and smiting the unworthy.
First, he just needed to learn how to swing the damn thing.