Chapter Text
Your life had been lots of nothing, right up until you saw the posting for a free farm in Mistria, a week’s travel away.
You were used to working for your keep. How different could running a farm be, really?
It turns out: really, really, different.
The girl who wrote the posting — Adeline, she introduces herself as — seems ecstatic to finally have a “capable” person running the farm. You smile to hide the utter horror at the wilderness you’re supposed to wrangle.
Her brother — you could’ve guessed, their hair the colour of azaleas, both of them — offers to take you on a tour of the town. A loud clang sounds from the shack you’ll be sleeping in, and you can’t resist a cringe. His sweet smile grows sheepish.
And so, your meagre belongings are left behind as the brother tugs you along. Not knowing what else to do, you let him.
The farm next door is named Sweetwater, and it makes a mockery of your farm with how orderly it is. The owner, a large, jovial man who introduces himself as Hayden, makes it impossible to consider being bitter about it.
Especially as he pushes an old, beat-up watering can into your hands. It’s unfortunately heartwarming and you smile back at him despite your exhaustion from travelling.
Hayden waves farewell as you and Eiland (he’d finally managed to introduce himself) make your way north of the farm. The pinkette seems happy to ramble about the cultural heritage of Mistria which, while interesting, is making your brain melt.
It’s quite the picturesque walk along The Narrows, it’s apparently called. A crystal clear stream runs through here to town, Eiland explains, with seasonal fish to boot. The way he looks as he mentions it makes you abruptly realise that farming is not likely the only thing they expect you to know how to do.
You’re still slightly (only slightly!) freaking out over that when you arrive at Eiland’s pride and joy: the empty museum. You don’t want to be rude, but it’s simply anticlimactic, walking through the entrance to see the vast, empty walls.
But then Eiland introduces you to his coworker, Errol, and again, against your better judgement, you find yourself smiling at their combined passion. The younger gestures almost violently at the closed-off sections, practically detonating with plans, while Errol nods along, much calmer but no less excited, eyes glittering.
It’s charming, you decide. And much, much different to the guarded natures of those who haunt the capital.
Another thing much different to what you’re used to. But you do your best to take it in stride, nodding at Errol when he ushers Eiland to continue the tour.
The way into town isn’t far from the museum, as the path gradually grows more worn, then paved, and then—
You remember this moment well, no matter how far in the future you’re asked to recall it.
Eiland is talking about the various statues found around Mistria when he interrupts himself. The Blacksmith, he says.
You cast your gaze forward. A roaring furnace highlights two silhouettes in the early twilight.
One waves. Eiland waves back, and you do too, albeit hesitantly. The pair of you stop beside the massive anvil, the heat from the furnace making you shed your early spring coat.
The one who waved introduces himself as Olric. He’s cheerful, amazingly so, and ridiculously broad. He does odd jobs, he says, when he isn’t helping his brother at the forge.
He turns to look at the other figure, whose head of red hair had not shifted since your arrival.
The silence drags for a beat, and he finally looks up, and you’re greeted with a scowl. “March.”
You stare blankly at him as Eiland gives a near-imperceptible sigh. March’s scowl deepens. “What do you want?”
You can’t help it; you burst out laughing.
Olric looks at you in surprise, but everyone here has been so ridiculously nice that having blatant disrespect shoved in your face finally pumps some blood through your veins.
Flushing in anger from your laughing fit, the blacksmith crosses his stupidly buff arms. “Is this some kind of joke to you?”
You heave a deep breath to get your laughter under control, feeling Eiland’s incredulous eyes boring into the side of your face. “Of course not.”
The redhead narrows his eyes at you. “Well, I don’t care what Adeline says, we don’t need an outsider to fix our problems. I- We have it under control.”
You cast your gaze around the town, picking out how run-down it actually looks. Your heart truly goes out to these poor people — all of them bar one, you suppose.
You allow your eyes to settle on a particularly egregious crack in the pavement. “Yeah, clearly.”
Out of the corner of your eyes, you see the blacksmith grit his teeth, before turning back to the forge.
You scoff to yourself, before finally facing your guide, who seems to have marginally recovered from his surprise.
Bidding farewell to Olric, who looks at you in apology, you and Eiland continue the tour of the town. Faces and names appear in front of you, all smiles and politeness, but your thoughts are still at the Blacksmith.
Eiland finally says something, as you both make your way across the wooden bridge to the farm. “He isn’t, uh, usually like that.”
You don’t ask who he’s talking about. “It’s okay. It’s a small town.”
The man eyes you, and doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Then—
“He’s an excellent blacksmith. The most skilled we’ve ever seen here in Mistria. His efforts to restore the town have been indispensable.”
Well, you think, laying in your old bed hardly an hour later. I’ll just become more indispensable.
—-
It’s easier said than done, however.
The next few days are spent being given tools and then attempting to use them without chopping off various appendages. The axe feels particularly dangerous, but you finally get the hang of it and clear the path to the tiny patch of tillable soil. Your old sword comes in handy too, cutting through particularly stubborn grass without too much effort.
Celine takes pity on you, watching you try to decide between using the last of your funds not spent on actually getting to Mistria on a rusted, peeling hoe or a handful of seeds. She hands them both to you, refusing your money, and you resolve to give her one of the first daffodils you grow — her eyes light up when she talks about her garden.
The kindness of the townspeople, while a little daunting, starts to make you feel warm inside.
And you’ve pointedly avoided the Blacksmith since the first day you arrived in town.
You don’t consciously do it, not really However, it becomes abundantly clear that you do need a pickaxe to clear the rather large set of stones out of the way of the path to Sweetwater.
And so, you innocently (really!) enquire with Josephine as to when Olric is working at the inn. Not because you are afraid of facing the angry blacksmith when you are already crushed beneath everyone’s weighty expectations.
The Sleeping Dragon Inn had quickly become your regular haunt after Reina offhandedly mentioned that the soup they serve is free. One less meal to pay for and cook means more time working out the difference between too-tilled and not-tilled-enough.
The matriarch of the Sleeping Dragon is far quicker than anyone deigned to tell you. Not that you’d assumed she was stupid or anything, but the way her eyes narrow minutely at your question tells you that very little likely gets past her.
Though from what you understand, the blacksmith is hardly subtle about his disdain. You’d hoped that you’d be a little more unreadable.
Josephine raises an eyebrow at you and you know you failed. Mercifully, she says nothing.
Instead, she tells you Olric is only helping on Thursday this week. Reina needs the extra time to prepare for Friday.
The last Friday had been… a lot.
Everyone was so jovial, and you admire that about them so completely. Everywhere you look in town, something is run-down, cracked or just not working. The cheerful atmosphere they sustained had been truly amazing.
But… you were exhausted. You’d taken a bowl of soup and slumped into the bar chair closest to the door. You’d waved away Hemlock offering alcohol, already wincing at the thought of trying to swing an axe with a hangover.
Valen had frowned at you, but didn’t say anything, instead continuing her back and forth with Juniper. If your eyelids weren’t actively fighting you, you might’ve found it as funny as Hemlock, who had attempted to cover his laughs, or Elsie, who audibly cackled.
No, by far the worst part was that blacksmith, chocolate eyes digging holes into the side of your face. You pointedly stare into your broccoli cheddar soup.
And you’d nearly made it, too — there’d been three, maybe four spoons left when sudden movement had drawn the eyes of the whole group, including you.
The blacksmith slams his empty beer mug down, then rolls his eyes at a frowning Josephine. “I’m just not as into ass-kissing as everyone else, I guess.”
The group had been shocked into silence, interrupted by raucous laughter from the poker table.
Josephine had pursed her lips. “March—”
But your already razer-thin patience had snapped. You were exhausted, working to try to be capable.
You’d slammed your spoon down. It clanged loudly, and he’d looked at you haughtily, as if he hadn’t done the same thing. As if he could see right through into your cracks and knew that you truly had nothing but your own wretched hands to help this desperate town. “As fun as this has been, I have work to do.”
You’d stormed out, right back to the farm, and cleared another section of it with your fury-filled second wind. How dare that blacksmith and his stupid piercing eyes see right through you?
Your renewed determination had pushed you to clear almost all the excess wood from your farm. The lack of branches and trees cheerfully highlights the abundance of stone, which had only filled you with dread.
Hence, Olric.
Josephine smiles at you as you leave, and the pity in it makes you itch uncomfortable as you take the short walk to the Blacksmith. The stupid redhead’s scorn making you worthy of pity is beyond infuriating.
Thankfully, your prediction proves correct; Olric stands at the forge like a beautiful beacon of rock-breaking.
He smiles at your approach, but doesn’t move his hand from the furnace. “Afternoon! After the anvil?”
Your head spins slightly at the thought of using an honest-to-god forge, and also at the amount of ‘a’ sounds in his sentence. “Ah - N-No, thank you. I’m actually after a pickaxe…?”
Olric’s smile grows wider, and the familiar feeling everyone gives you settles in your chest. “That’s great! Don’t need to make many of them nowadays, with the mines closed. What kind are you looking for? Iron?”
Your pockets are not heavy enough for an iron pickaxe. You know the worst you’ll get from Olric is more pity, though. “Um, just… Whatever’s cheapest, please.”
Predictably, his smile turns pitying, and you shove your feelings of self-disgust violently aside. You need to start somewhere.
But a scoff comes from behind you, and Olric frowns, still not moving his hands. “Hold on, March—”
You whirl around, forcing your embarrassment down to desperately cling to anger instead.
And he’s there, of course the blacksmith is at the Blacksmith, holding what is probably ore. Your wishful thinking disappears into smoke.
He meets your gaze, chin raised, as if daring you to call him out. You viciously wonder how he can even see past his own nose. His stupid, freckle-covered button nose.
You realise you missed your chance to respond when he rolls his eyes and moves past you to Olric, placing the ore within the brunette’s reach.
Olric looks between you two as the blacksmith pokes the furnace he currently has his hands stuck in. You don’t even want to think about your expression, and you aren’t given the chance to.
The blacksmith brushes back past you toward the door with a disgusted sigh. “Come on, then.”
You glance back at Olric, who nods at his busy hands helplessly. Goddammit.
Schooling your expression to something that hopefully resembles indifference, you follow the blacksmith in.
It occurs to you that you’ve never actually been inside the building. It’s spacious - tidy, and smells like polish. You’re not sure what else you expected a Blacksmith to be, but when you catch the heat of the glare its owner gives you, you realise you’d hoped it’d give you some kind of defence.
It’s hopeless. You grit your teeth as he hands you a flaking, rusted pickaxe, derision glinting in his eyes. “Here. We found it next to the mines. I was just going to scrap it, but you can have it.”
His smugness is truly unbearable, but you have nothing to retort with. At the very least, you refuse to take charity from him. You dump a hundred tesserae into his palm before he can withdraw it.
And—
It’s electric, where your fingers touch. A current of energy, burning you through the heat of his palm.
Flustered, you snatch your hand back instantly, scowling at the betrayal of your own body.
The blacksmith crumples the money in his hand, clenching it into a fist.
You force out a “Thanks,” because you will not sacrifice your manners for something as miniscule as his anger. As it is, her raises his gaze from his fist to your face, looking like he sucked on a lemon.
You meet his gaze, daring him to say something else, but he just scoffs, dumps the money on his work table, and pulls some plans toward him. An effective dismissal.
Fine by you. You spin on your heel and push the door open, slamming it behind you with more force than necessary. Waving goodbye to Olric, you thumb the sharp edge of the pickaxe and look forward to smashing some rocks.
And if you swing a little harder than needed when you picture a smug, freckled face, that was between you and the weird dragon statue.
—-
The next Friday, you go to the inn despite your better judgement. Frankly, you spend a long time fighting with yourself while digging out some artifacts from the Western Ruins for Eiland.
Eventually, though, it hits 8, and you sigh, dust yourself off, sling your pickaxe over your shoulder and start the walk there. Your fear of not being considered a “real” member of the town outweighs your reluctance to see the blacksmith, much to your frustration.
You pointedly ignore the forge, instead choosing to take the southern path past the stables. Obviously, you can’t avoid it forever, since Eiland seems determined to get the mines reopened, but for now, your tools do well enough.
The inn is bustling, even from the outside. Laughter emanates from it. It makes your palms sweat, for some reason.
You take a deep breath and push the doors open.
Immediately, calls of your name ring out, and your face heats. You give a short wave back, before beelining for the soup. You spoon some into a bowl, and are about to make you way to your usual seat when—
“Farmer! Hey, Farmer!”
You freeze.
The blacksmith is waving you over, a smile(?) on his face.
Not really knowing what’s going on but not knowing what else to do, you hesitantly walk over, keeping your face blank. He gestures for Elsie to move over, who does, not bothering to hide her snickering. “Oh, yes, please take a seat, farmer. Isn’t our lovely March much more charming like this?”
You look behind you to Olric, who is holding his poker hand against his chest while he watches curiously. He beams his massive smile at you when you meet his gaze.
You slowly turn back to the blacksmith, taking stock of his unfocused eyes and flushed face.
Oh, so he’s only tolerable when he’s drunk. Great.
Elsie and Juniper burst out laughing, and you flush, realising you said that out loud. You spoon your soup and are grateful the blacksmith gave no indication of hearing it.
Valen smiles at you over her glass of red wine. “I’m glad to see you looking more awake this week, farmer. You had me worried for a moment.”
You don’t meet her eyes, unwilling to admit just how much time you’ve spent learning how, exactly, one is supposed to farm. “Yes, well, farming isn’t an easy job.”
She chuckles. “That it isn’t. Well, feel free to have a glass of wine. I brought it for us to share.”
You blink. One glass should be fine. “Thank you, Valen.”
Nodding at you, she allows herself to be drawn into conversation with Juniper.
Elsie sips on her own glass as Hemlock appears with the bottle and pours you one, winking when you smile at him. He then turns to the blacksmith. “How are you going, March?”
The blacksmith — no, March, — gives him a massive smile, reminiscent of Olric’s. “I’m good for now, thank you!”
You stare at him, open-mouthed. Elsie chortles at both of you, but you barely hear it. Alcohol changes people, sure, but this is beyond anything you’ve ever seen.
Josephine moves to place a small plate of fries in front of the redhead. She smiles at him fondly as he beams at her and grabs a chip.
It’s — you picture the indifferent stare. This is the same person?
The incredulity must be clear on your face. Jo smiles at you, but her eyes are sad. “This is closer to how I know he feels inside.”
You blink, then turn back to March. He’d been distracted by Olric getting his attention, but he looks at you as soon as he feels your gaze.
And then he smiles at you again, and you inhale sharply. “How are you finding Mistria?”
“Fine,” you say, painfully fast. “It’s good. G-Great, even.”
He nods as you shove your spoon into your mouth and wish you would disappear. “It’s a beautiful place.”
Elsie heaves a dramatic sigh from your other side. “Yes, indeed. It’s such a shame our rank fell so far after that wretched earthquake.”
You swallow your mouthful. “Actually, I have some materials left over from clearing the farm. I was thinking we could use them to repair the bridge out of town.”
You run into the frustrated Balor almost every day on your way to your daily soup bowl. He’s charming enough, but you both have leftover capital mannerisms that turn your normal interactions into needless games of cat and mouse.
A choked noise from March brings you from your thoughts. “You’re going to repair the bridge?”
His voice doesn’t have the usual amount of scorn, and doesn’t cover up whatever complex feeling he has underneath it.
You don’t really care. “Yes, Adeline mentioned the markets can return if it’s fixed.” Followed by a distinctly pleading look, but you don’t mention that.
“Well, now, that’s excellent news!” Elsie says with a tone that guarantees the entire town will know by tomorrow morning.
March downs the end of his beer and stands. “It’s getting late.”
Without any further goodbyes, he gets up and leaves, the door closing with a bang that makes the older woman wince. “Oh well, he is the moody type…”
You shrug. Your soup is excellent, the wine is excellent, and you say as much to Valen, who grins. Juniper huffs and asks Elsie about one of her escapades, and she regales you all with the scandalous tale.
The entire night, despite your best efforts, you cannot get that stupid blacksmith’s smile out of your head.
And he continues to haunt you as spring comes to a close. You avoid him in town. You avoid him at the festival, even as you place third for your efforts in gathering Breaths of Spring. And when you go to the inn the Friday before the first market back, he isn’t there.
You avoid him perfectly. So why won’t he leave you alone?