Work Text:
🌸 SPR 11, THU - YEAR 1
"What good are you even for?"
The moment the words left his lips, March knew they would be his undoing. It hadn't been more than two days since the adventurer came into the forge bearing a sack full of iron ore that hadn't been busted to smithereens by an amateur's swing. But the very presence of this outsider continued to grate at the easily perforated skin of his heart, and with a wagon-load of orders at his doorstep and the town's expectations on his shoulders, March was at his wits end and the adventurer was there.
A silent presence, steadily butting his way into every aspect of life in Mistria. The people sung his praises though he'd only been there for a little under a fortnight and such idolization grated at March's nerves. What would they do once the adventurer tired of being their savior and moved on to the next hapless town ready to fall at his feet? Worse, how long would it take for him to pick up the pieces of his loved ones who were unmistakably falling for this adventurer's shtick?
He swore that he wouldn't be fooled, and trained his eyes on the rippling reflection in the quenching trough to ensure his glare still held firm. Silence answered the scathing remark and cooled the air despite the forge's roaring maw. Sweat dampened March's brow and beneath the lining of his bandana but he dared not attend to either, unwilling to show the slightest bit of vulnerability in front of the adventurer.
And to no one's surprise, the adventurer said not a single word in return.
March turned his attention back to where he'd left the adventurer, half-expecting the living nuisance to have vacated the smithy without a backward glance or to have evaporated in thin air with how quiet he was. But the adventurer still stood there as still as he'd been when he'd arrived with the parchment scrawled on with March's recent request. The adventurer claimed he would need at least two days time to gather the requested ore, and March snorted at the unspoken implication.
So, the adventurer couldn't keep up with the town's requests after all. Well, that was tough. March wouldn't let his orders be late - let the town down - because the town's hero decided that he couldn't keep up with the demand he'd started.
While the adventurer's expression hadn't changed at all and there was hardly a shift in his posture, something did feel different about him. March wasn't certain how to put a finger on it but the blue irises watching him from beneath half-drawn lids flicker minutely as if they're searching him for something and haven't quite found it yet. The adventurer's jaw set in a hard line, lips pressed thin but twitching slightly at the corner and March wondered if he would actually open his mouth to say something in rebuttal, or stay silent as he always did.
To his surprise, the adventurer closed his eyes. March realized after a beat that the adventurer might have been trying to gather himself. Nerves twisted in the pit of March's stomach with a mess of emotion. So, he could lose that "above-it-all" air to him and get irritated like anyone else. Though that wasn't March's intention, and he could care less whether the adventurer was upset with him or not, it was interesting to know. Something to keep in the back of his mind for the day the adventurer fell off the pedestal everyone put him on.
Then, the adventurer's eyes snapped open and March's mind ground to a halt.
His irises glowed with the glitter of tempered ore, drawn out before it could harden to the point of uselessness. The forge's flames flickered in their depths, firelight shifted and pooled as molten gold slid with the fineness of tongs around blue fire. March straightened his posture ever so slightly as a shiver curled at the base of his spine, threatening to push him off beat. Slowly, the adventurer's head tilted to one side and a stray lock of dark hair cut across his right eye.
He didn't blink, nor did he break his steady glower from March as his eyes narrowed. The sharpness of his gaze akin to a blade pressed to the small of March's back daring him to move, to flinch, to flee. March did none of these. This was his smithy, and his town, and the adventurer wouldn't run him out of any of those without a fight.
The adventurer turned his head slightly, though he kept March's gaze out the corner of his eye, as if he were unwilling to let him out of his sight for long. Heat curled at the pit of March's stomach when those eyes narrowed to slivers, positively burning from beneath the shade of his curling bangs. At last, the adventurer released him when he turned his back and walked — stalked, because the stiffness and heavy steps March normally associated with anger was mirrored by a soundless, purposeful stride. March could hardly recall a time he'd ever seen someone walk softly in boots, but the adventurer walked away without a single word or sound to tell.
March grimaced when he realized he'd watched until the adventurer was out of sight, and he turned back to his work intending to let the moment pass from mind. But when he glanced at the trough and saw the shuddering spring sky, he thought of the adventurer's eyes and shuddered despite the heat rolling off the forge.
Errol claimed the adventurer was good with a blade, skilled enough to venture to the twentieth floor of the mine within a few days of its opening. At first, March was inclined to believe it was lip service and false praise. But perhaps there was some truth to it because the adventurer had eyes like the monsters Tereithia turned larger and grander in each retelling of her stories, and he looked as if he would make good on the promise his gaze spoke of.