Chapter Text
Spring 16, dawn.
March wakes up on his birthday to the sounds of rain.
He groans, tossing his covers back over his head. Of course, he thinks, sullenly.
On days like this, he and his brother like to take turns roasting each other about their lack of outdoor cover for the shop’s anvil and forge.
In truth – with all the damages from the earthquake, Lady Adeline’s endless checklists for the ‘betterment’ of Mistria, and the town’s need for more quality craftsmanship than the Capital could even dream of – Olric and March simply hadn’t the time, nor the resources, to install one.
It’s hard to think of a roof as anything urgent when the clouds are light above their heads; when the sun’s delicate rays warm the blooming patches of Breath of Spring in their infancy.
But on days like these, they pay the price for their negligence.
Well… March pays.
The most they can do is basic maintenance. Olric is pretty happy with any task set before him – he’ll clean whatever tool March hands him, idly watching his brother reorganize the already meticulously laid out materials and goods that populate the shop’s indoor shelves and workstations.
March might be able to get some sharpening done, but that’s about it. A job Olric is banned from until he can get a hold on his daydreaming. (“My bad, bro,” Olric has said before, sweeping up the shattered pieces of something probably important. “I was just thinking about –” Rocks, March would sigh. That, or lifting heavy rocks.)
Moping about bad weather is a waste of time, though. It would be much more efficient to do it while he’s upright.
Yet, even that thought isn’t enough to get his ass out of bed. March lets the bitterness settle in his stomach – because it’s not just weather.
There’s no denying it, March has been robbed. Punished by the gods, maybe. Or by whatever creatures hold control over the skies and his good fortune. Because of course it would be raining on his birthday.
Of course, some random person would show up to his town, before the season even begins, and lay claim to a portion of it.
As if she had any right. As if she will do anything but take advantage of those who were kind enough to invite her in.
He thinks back to a time not long ago, when Ryis interrupted a similar stream of vicious thoughts.
“Where was this scathing review when Juniper first came into town?” The carpenter had squinted at him. “When I showed up?”
“You’re different,” he argued, then. “You’re already tied here by blood. And Juni never promised to be anything but the menace she arrived as.” But Mel – Melpomene –
It was – she is – infuriating. In a word.
He knows he cannot blame her for the rain. Perhaps the operative words here are ‘should not’, because he actually finds he can blame her for a fair number of things.
March hates just how… how easily she fits.
He despises his people for calling her Mel. So casually, as if they had known her for their whole lives. As if she had earned a spot at the table, already.
But…perhaps that is cruelty.
Towards his people, obviously.
It’s not their fault for being taken in by a charlatan. It was only a matter of time before they would realize how foolish they were – worshiping some – some Capital girl.
A Capital girl who donated a worm. To a museum.
For fuck’s sake.
It’s untenable. Ridiculous.
March clenches his fists, still buried deep in the warmth of his comforter.
He lets the injustice of it wash over him, because, godsdamn it all, it’s his birthday, and it’s raining, and March doesn’t even get the dignity of being able to work.
He’d never know how long this internal tirade might go – and it's not his first, by any means – because in that moment, March bites down on his cheek hard, all the air expelling from his lungs with a soft oof.
Briefly, as copper flashes across his tastebuds, he considers the idea that he might be dead.
The weight on him is familiar enough, though, and with it, a memory stirs.
This is how Olric greets his birthday.
…
By jumping on him.
It wasn’t fun when they were kids; it’s especially not fun when they are both three times as big. “Get off,” he grounds out.
There’s a flash of teeth through the tumble of blankets – the beginnings of a tell-tale song – “ Happy birthd–”
March kicks him off, onto the floor.
…It’s a little fun.
Olric rolls away, enthusiasm uncurbed. “Happy birthday! It’s raining.”
March responds by throwing a pillow.
His brother leaps up off the floor, releasing it unceremoniously onto his face. “You dropped this. Birthday boy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, punching it away from him.
He takes a second to stretch and rub the grit from his eyes.
The sight of his feet upon the stone comes into bleary focus. March blinks.
Olric has vanished, as quietly as he appeared. Perhaps he had sensed March’s already foul mood, and knew to steer clear. It doesn't take much time at all for the promising sounds and smells of breakfast to cleave through the dreary atmosphere of his mind.
March finds it to be a struggle not to let his muscles collapse back onto his bed. Not simply because of the rain. Though certainly not encouraged by it, either.
As he ties up his headband, donning the necklace that he leaves hanging from his bedpost, March admits to himself that - it would have been fine if he could have been out at the Forge today.
Outside. Working.
He knows that his people will find him and wish him well – because they're good, his people. But it does feel cheap that they'll find him indoors, sitting on his ass, without any real evidence that he was worthy of their well-wishes in the first place. Sure, the shop isn't empty, nor has it ever been, but he hates feeling like he's lying about. Waiting for someone to praise him and be done with it.
What sucks, what really sucks, he thinks, gloomily, his mind sulking out the window in the water-filled streets of Mistria… is that… he was looking forward to having others pay attention to him. Just enough to attract the notice of an outsider.
Just enough to rub it in her face, a little bit.
With just how much Lady Adeline was lauding her name, it must have been a relief to her that Melpomene didn't immediately set fire to Mistria upon her arrival.
And yes, she did open up the mines. And… restore the old mill.
But those were flukes, as far as March was concerned. A few weeks of good behavior could not match years of it. There were things that she could never catch up on.
There would always be something she wasn't included in. Things that she couldn't, or wouldn't bother to know, until it was too late.
March allows that satisfaction to wash over him and polishes off a still-steaming omelet. His brother disappears, returning with some hot coffee from the Inn. In that time, March tracks down a smaller project to which he can dedicate his day, to his relief.
As he takes his first sip, there is a loud SMACK from the front of the shop.
It’s followed by the pitter-patter of wet footsteps, muffled in the rain.
Olric had just dipped his butter knife into his own drink; he looks at March with raised brows. When March shrugs, Olric rises and opens the door.
March is just getting caught up in the morning flow when Olric, behind him, says, “So… this is a threat, right?”
In his hands, pinched between fingers, is a soggy piece of parchment. It appears to have been painted red, going by the color of the puddles of water forming beneath it. The only discernible design that March can make out is a giant number.
March screws up his eyes. “Is that a… four?”
Spring 15
Nora has multiple spreadsheets of data that she keeps open in her mind, at all times.
The physical ledgers that exist for the record-keeping and inventory management of the general store – the ones currently sitting on the shelf to her left – are their own separate things. Though equally as pleasurable, in their own right.
Although, compared to the former, her cerebral files are extraordinary for the reason that they feature inputs that are not quantifiable.
Such as, the opposition-defense matrix Nora amends just this morning – a point in favor of the argument that she is getting too old for this nonsense.
How does one assign weight to the value that she can tell that it will rain tomorrow, based solely on the ache of her joints and the headache throbbing at her temples? The question of yay versus nay is more easily quantifiable, but it is much more difficult to try to scale concepts. Such as, the answer’s logical coherence, or the strength of its evidence.
That isn’t to say that she couldn’t do it. It would just be so tiresome to create a scale based on feelings that may shift, making the entire system inaccurate within the blink of an eye.
The data stored within her neurons is based on intuition; gut feeling.
She will not elaborate. Nora simply feels no need to explain herself, to herself.
And, truth be told, there’s nothing necessary about her extensive metaphysical spreadsheets. They don’t serve a material purpose. Her matrix, for example, doesn’t exist to be persuasive. Rather, it exists so that Nora has a place to:
- vent about the parts of her life that she cannot control (aging, and change); and
- celebrate the aspects that she can affect (loving, growing, etc).
It’s fun. And often meditative, in many cases. While she doesn’t revel in her own pain or discomfort, the part of Nora (who doesn’t regard aging as negative) feels that the warning of foul weather will be a boon to planning ahead.
For the kids, for the store… for the Spring Festival.
They’ve held festivals in the Manor, she muses, tapping her pencil to her lips. Sometimes, even, at the Inn, when they have requisitioned tables to act as booths.
Nora flips through her (real) binder to her daily schedule, and pens in a note to catch Adeline at a time she might inquire about indoor arrangements.
And, somewhat begrudgingly, she locates a small window where she could pop by the clinic. Perhaps Valen has stock of remedies that help with pressure headaches.
Another data sheet opens up to her with the spark of a memory. It’s the ledger that contains information about her children; their particular milestones over the years. Including, but not limited to: instances of growth, their likes and dislikes, their hopes and fears as Nora understands them, and… the list goes on.
Like how a year ago, Dell fell off the old oak and broke her arm.
She tried to hide it. It didn’t work. Not because Dell wasn’t stoic enough, but because her mother made it a hobby to be observant. (“A warrior knows no pain,” she had whispered into Holt’s neck as they headed to the clinic.) The lesson Valen offered to her daughter is one apparently the mother needed, as well. Nora softens, remembering.
‘If you bite your tongue and grit your teeth instead of asking for help, you will still hurt – and then your mouth will hurt, too.’
Faintly, Nora hears the tinkle of the bell from the front of the shop. A minute passes. She’s scratching out notes when two light knocks hit the bedroom door.
“Come in.” She turns to look, but there is no need.
Nora knows who it is.
She catches a glimpse of Holt entering with a grin, both hands full. Her husband recognizes her expression, and his eyes twinkle. “You know, I’ve just swept out front. If you need a place to exercise your mental gymnastics, it’s real tidy out there.”
Nora smiles down at her paperwork. The ghost of shyness, even after all these years.
The data tabs over to a sheet she has maintained for decades. If the information were corporeal, it would likely resemble a journal only meters away.
(Nora has never looked inside. That would ruin the horror – er, surprise.)
The contents of this spreadsheet are filled to the brim with words scrambled around, in ways that are… mostly endearing, sometimes a stretch, occasionally repulsive, and all consistently very funny - to one person.
Her person.
Holt leans up against her desk. He shakes his head. “It’s the strangest thing, though. I found these sitting just outside.” He holds them aloft for her inspection. “Do you think they fell from the sky?”
She accepts her coffee gratefully. “It is going to rain tomorrow.”
He gasps, placing his mug down on a free surface. He tilts, a gentle hand on her left cheek to press a kiss on the other. “My wife,” he says, “knows so many extraordinary things.
She always tells me weather, or weather not.”
His mustache tickles. She rolls her eyes, taking a sip from the steaming mug.
Holt’s eyes narrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Nora’s face turns sheepish. “Thank you.” She presses her mug back in his palm, and he exits back towards the kitchen. The Sleeping Dragon’s house roast is pretty good, but a splash of dairy always elevates it.
Refocusing, Nora taps out a beat on the ledger in front of her. Their stock is still somewhat meager, at least comparatively to what it was pre-earthquake. Even so, the bridge’s repair has certainly been a blessing to their inventory.
She barely registers when Holt quietly returns with her coffee, newly steaming with hot milk.
He goes back out to man the counter. While she works, Nora’s habit of data analysis shifts to her newest mental spreadsheet.
The melody and tenor of conversation calls her awareness towards the shop.
Almost as if on cue, a soft laugh signals the presence of Mistria’s most recent addition.
While it is true that Nora makes mindful notes about the people in her life, she’s no gossip.
(Except for the occasional conversations that include Elsie – she’s only human, for goodness’ sake, and that woman can tell a good story – and true, she and Jo never run out of topics to broach, but – )
She’s curious, obviously, but to be a gossip would imply a specific feeling behind her information gathering. A motive to lower others so that she might better herself.
Nonsense.
Nora has never, not once, shared with anyone the columns and rows inside her mind. In part because it would be embarrassing, but mostly because Nora might be asked why.
Beyond personal enjoyment, why do these things?
She has read books; traveled, before and after the births of her children. Nora knows she has seen a great deal, and yet a very small portion of the world. She doesn’t wish to philosophize or make claims.
It is a secret, then, (or at least an unmentioned truth of being) that Nora adheres to when she attends to her data.
Above all else, people wish to be understood.
What better way to love others, than to do her best to understand them?
As it is, Mel – Melpomene, to some; Miss Melpo, as she’s apparently known to the kids – was, and continues to be, a bit of an enigma.
Nora’s first impressions of the adventurer-turned-farmer are ones she tries to keep on the fairer side of things. She can only imagine how difficult it would be to get comfortable with an already tightly-knit community – Mel doesn’t need more scrutiny from Nora, even if it is kept locked away in her own mind.
But that doesn’t mean Nora isn’t curious.
It just means she’s careful with the focus of her data.
Primarily, Nora wants to understand two things about Mel’s character. Her motivations (as to what drove her to Mistria); and her determination (or what may keep her in Mistria). All good things to know, as the head of the Chamber of Commerce. And as a mother, and frequent caregiver, to children who were emotionally invested.
It was, indeed, quite a task to replant oneself into a new type of lifestyle, a new vocation, and a new group of people. Nora does not envy this.
With that being true, it is also true that Mel has still taken to Mistria with surprising ease and enthusiasm.
It had made Nora wonder, fleetingly, if the baronets were somehow related to her. The color of Mel’s hair makes it difficult to discern her from Adeline or Eiland at a distance. And Mistria’s royal family all possessed a way of inspiring others through their own hopes.
It is her eyes that mark the difference – rather than purple, Mel’s irises are red. (Nora does not often deal in gemstones – they make impractical wares – but her instinct would be to liken them to garnet. Or perhaps ruby, if held in light.)
Most notable – at least in Nora’s perspective – was a relatively small inference she made during their introductions.
Nora had been quick to discount her own memory, afterwards. It was very possible that Mel simply took very good care of her hands.
Yet, Nora has shaken more hands than most other people might, as a result of her business and its dealings. (Were her vision to ever leave her, Nora wonders if she might be able to recognize certain people based solely on their handshake.)
Artisans tended to have calluses in specific areas, on their most dominant hand. Like Jo’s hands, or Hemlock’s. Laborers were pretty similar, though are all around more rough, whether due to dryness or damage. Terithia’s. Olric’s, for example. Those who worked little with their hands, like those of Eiland, Juniper, or Elsie, might remain generally soft.
Mel was certainly strong, that much was evident.
She helped gather and carry the required materials for both the bridge and the mill.
It was a fascinating question, then, as to how someone in an adventurer’s guild managed to avoid picking up a sword. Or at least, hadn’t picked one up enough to develop the calluses associated with regular use.
That was what Nora guessed about Mel. She carried a sword with her, sometimes, but it wasn’t exactly the high-quality iron or silver Nora was accustomed to seeing on the traveling adventurers who wandered into town before.
But again, Mel’s hands were soft. Manicured.
A couple weeks in, the bandages Nora had spied wrapped around some of Mel’s fingers and knuckles felt like something close to confirmation of her suspicion. The new farmer did not complain, and to Nora’s knowledge, had not sought out any help from Valen. But whatever calling Mel had before coming to Mistria, it wasn’t one that involved working with her hands.
For the third time that morning, Nora is pulled away from her thoughts.
Knuckles rap at the door. She feels her face redden slightly, looking down at her ledger.
She had gotten rather distracted. Clearing her throat, she calls out. “Yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Mel’s voice floats through the barrier of wood. “Holt told me I could come back here. I was just wondering…”
Nora is already standing, chair pushed back under her desk, before Mel finishes. She opens the door, shutting it softly behind her.
“Good morning,” Nora smiles, and Mel’s returning smile is immediate, and characteristic.
The tiny pinch in her brow, Nora notes, is not.
“Hi, Nora,” Mel says. “I wondered if you happen to keep any art supplies in stock?”
Art supplies? Nora is fairly certain of the answer, but she re-opens the ledger in her arms.
She hums. In her periphery, Mel shifts her weight. “We haven’t prioritized inventory like paints –” Nora glances up to check if that was, indeed, what Mel was after, “ – for quite some time. Though, if you’re looking for house paint, Landen - or Ryis, I should say - may have several liters on hand.”
Mel shakes her head.
“Well, besides the paper we already have,” Nora says, spying the sheets Mel had just purchased at her side, along with a scrap of fabric. Noted. “I’m afraid if you’d like to do something creative, we would have to put in an order with Balor for the next time he goes to the Capital.”
Her face falls, but she doesn’t look surprised. “That’s alright. Thanks for checking. I appreciate it.”
Nora’s head tilts. She debates with herself for a moment, then presses. “Is there some kind of project we might help you with? It would be no trouble.”
Her mental spreadsheet predicts Mel’s refusal before she even speaks. Her body angles back towards the shop. “It’s really fine,” she insists, “It’s too short notice, I know. I was going to try to make a card for –”
Commotion. The noise of a scuffle, from beyond. They both turn to look.
There is a tremendous burst of color and sound. The first thing Nora can parse is her husband’s desperate words. “Ma’am!” He calls out, urgently, from inside the store. “They’ve breached our defenses! We’re powerless to stop –”
The Dragonsguard swarm into the family room.
They pose.
“Commander.” Her youngest daughter is on one knee. Her sword (stick) is planted in front of her. “We have investigated the swing set, as you asked.”
Maple nods, bowing her head with her eyes closed. Austere. “You can definitely still fall off it but only if you don’t hold on.”
A hand moves from Luc’s hips to gesture at Nora with an outstretched palm. He opens his mouth – only to use it to break character.
“Miss Melpo! What are you doing here?”
Their play momentarily forgotten, the kids scramble to invade the farmer’s space – all with equally important things to say to her, all at the same time.
Mel does her best to split her attention threefold.
Nora takes on a brusque tone. “Heroes,” she says gravely. “Now is not the time. You must leave me with my… agent, for the moment. I shall summon you when I am finished speaking with her.”
A hint of the residual drama crosses their expressions. They exchange nods. “Okay, sure!” Dell grabs the hands of her compatriots. “We’ll go wait outside with Dad.”
“See you later, Miss Melpo,” Maple calls back brightly.
Her brother waves energetically, and the onslaught of the wonderfully loud and bright is no more. The children shut the door gently behind them.
There’s a beat of silence where the two of them recollect themselves. They’re both still smiling.
Nora starts, “I am sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. But what I was going to say…” She looks furtively in the direction of the shop. “Dell has her own art supplies. They wouldn’t be as clean or as professional as something we might get from the city. But… I am sure she would be more than willing to share what she has with you.” She swiftly adds, “Provided that she gets to supervise.”
Nora documents, internally, the way the tension on her face dissipates.
“Really?” Mel asks, and it’s quiet. Unsure.
Nora’s grin widens. When Mel meets her gaze, she takes it as confirmation. “Kids,” she raises her voice. “I have your next mission.”
Some time later, sprawled out on the grass in a heap of parchment and hues, the kids have more than risen to the task at hand.
And Nora… well. She has some more to add to her mental spreadsheets.
An amendment, for one. A third reason for wanting to get to know Mel a little bit more.
Nora discovered this moments after she offered up her daughter’s art supplies. The look on Mel’s face.
…She’s seen that expression before. In her children. Felt that feeling herself.
For as self-possessed as Nora believes herself to be - knows herself to be - she has not been a stranger to self-doubt. In Mel’s pinched brow, Nora had found a kindred spirit.
Lying on their stomachs, shoulder to shoulder, Nora watches Mel and the kids brush heads as they work together. Mel has a soft smile.
Nora feels for her; as a friend might, or as her parents could.
It is not easy to want to feel the confidence that others see in you, Nora thinks. Mel murmurs something to Luc, who sits up straighter. Proud.
Nora can only hope that the doubts plaguing Mel could see what she looks like now.
(Nora also cannot wait to tell Holt that she only has to remind Dell once what collaboration means. A huge win, in her humble opinion.)
There is a sense of too many cooks in the kitchen, so once Dell completes her part, Nora encourages her to continue her own art projects. This turns out to be good, as it becomes apparent that Dell had been damming up her creative juices for sometime now.
Another win. (Though, a significant dent in the shop's paper reserves.)
Several busy and smiling shadows approach them throughout the activity, eclipsing the sun as it rises high in the sky.
The most welcome surveyors – twin bubbling brooks of euphonic words and sweetness – arrive around midday in the forms of Reina and Celine.
Mel blinds herself, temporarily, when she looks up. They laugh a little, bobbing their heads around to block what they can.
They carry with them wicker baskets filled with Breath of Spring. The willow reeds woven within creak as the girls reposition themselves.
Nora notes, without surprise (and no small amount of pride), the sizable difference in volume of blooms in her eldest’s basket. Reina’s is admirable, if comparatively modest.
Growing up, it had been her and Jo’s childhood fantasy that their children would be friends. Just as they had been, and always will be. It was a pleasure that she never has to imagine what this fantasy could have been like as she marks the flow of conversation, eyes moving from face to face.
It’s even more pleasing, Nora realizes, seeing the glowing smiles echo between the farmer and her girls, to watch that love grow even further beyond what they had initially dreamed.
As if a timed reminder, Nora’s temple throbs. She winces – an expression caught by Celine, who shoots her a worried glance.
Sensing her opportunity, Nora rises, stretching. “Would you girls mind taking the kids back for lunch? I'm going to go see Valen for a moment, and then I’ll rejoin you.” Her oldest relaxes when Nora shakes her head, minutely.
“Wait!” Luc pleads. The movement of his pencil increases wildly. “I’m almost done!”
“No problem, Nora,” goes Reina. “We won’t rush you. Can we look?”
Baskets set aside, Nora brushes off her dress as the two girls kneel to inspect their work. They offer the appropriate ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s.
“Hey, Mel,” Celine begins, and Nora hears teasing in her voice. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything that will go alongside this? A gift, perhaps?”
Reina is quick to follow up with, “I’m sure this would be gift enough… but –”
Nora has just passed the fence line, thanking them and bidding farewell to Mel as she walks. She hears Mel say, “Oh,” and fumble around a bit.
She looks back at them, and it is darling – the way they all look, piled together like leaves. The artists have paint smeared in various places on their faces and clothes (some artists more than others; she won’t mention names). When Mel produces something, Nora’s vision is blocked by her own movement.
The two older girls gasp, and Nora does catch the sly smile on Reina’s face, barely covered by her hand as she turns to exchange looks with Celine.
Mel’s voice hushes. “Please don’t tell Errol. Or… Eiland. I know the museum would probably appreciate something like this, but I thought –”
Nora is too far away now to sate her curiosity. She does hear one last thing, and it’s Celine.
“Mel,” she says. “He’s going to love it.”
Spring 16, afternoon.
The last time Ryis tried to throw a birthday party for March, it did not go as planned.
It had all started with a promise that Ryis made to himself – that he would never, ever admit to his best friend that, when they met, Ryis had been a little bit intimidated by March.
Ryis didn’t make this promise out of his own pride. More like… stubbornness.
No, wait. Friendly determination! That’s the one.
To Ryis’ knowledge, March was not unaware of the ways he had been perceived by others.
It had gotten Ryis to think. Most particularly, when Ryis had finally got him to talk – really, actually talk – about himself, and his trade.
Ryis had inquired about the first time he had ever worked with silver, and the gleam in his eyes filled Ryis with such smugness.
Got you, he had thought, trying to hide the curl of his mouth as March spoke, reverent.
Ryis knows what a reputation does to a person. He lived in the Capital for the majority of his life.
While he has never been anyone important, in the whole scheme of things, he has seen himself how the ways you are described to others can become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
So.
Ryis had decided he wouldn’t let it.
He would be an exception, for March.
Once, March pointed it out to him. “Even you steered clear of me when you first came to Mistria.” Chin up, head tilted back. “Face it. I’m fucking scary.”
Ryis had scrunched up his brow. He made a show of looking him over, frowning. “Huh,” he said, shaking his head. “Never really got that impression.”
He scoffed. “Sure, Ryis.”
“I’m serious! Well, maybe there was one time. But that was when I was considering trying to become the best blacksmith in all of Aldaria. Then I was scared of you.”
March glared. “Shut up.” By then, Ryis had known him long enough to see he was biting back a smile.
When Ryis had first pitched his idea of a birthday party, he understood the dubious look exchanged between Reina and Olric. It seemed counterintuitive. And it’s not as if they hadn’t tried similar things in the past.
But Ryis was insistent.
“If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work,” he said, crossing his arms. “And you can blame me when it does.”
Ryis never expected a miracle. He didn’t think he had some kind of magic touch, one that might heal whatever hurt rattled around in March’s heart.
But he did wonder how much of March’s appearance was shaped by – and for the comfort of – the expectations of others.
Ryis had also known March long enough to notice when he was getting locked up in his own head.
This happened occasionally, without a catalyst, but time revealed some patterning in this behavior.
It was like Ryis could see the tension start to build in March’s shoulders, tightening his fists. He’d snap quickly, easily. Like clockwork: from the beginning of Spring, ending around the Spring Festival.
Honestly, the relief of seeing the burden lifted off of him was part of the reason why Ryis liked the Spring Festival so much. (Though he’d never tell him that. Too afraid it would lock him up further.)
Other people described this period as one of brooding, but that never quite hit.
Not for Ryis.
He actually thought it had something to do with just how much is going on in March’s head, all of the godsdamn time.
March was invariably, relentlessly aware. Of himself; aware of how he existed and operated in space. Aware of others; their needs, their vulnerabilities. He's so unbelievably careful in the ways in which he navigates the world.
Not only that, March worked so that he could breathe, and breathed only for work.
Ryis had never met anyone like him.
All told, the first attempt had been fairly successful – at least, in Ryis’ mind. Even if March had left the gathering at the Inn, he still stayed for fifteen minutes. And – and – Ryis had learned a lot, in those fifteen minutes.
Namely, that March was an enigma. A stomping, scowling contradiction; a person who did not know why he wanted or for what.
Yet yearning, regardless.
That was okay.
More than okay, really. Ryis had known pretty early on that he and March would be best friends. Figuring out how he ticked was never a problem, per se. More of a puzzle.
One he refused to be intimidated by.
It’s only March, after all.
“What if I wasn’t subtle enough this time?” Olric frets.
Ryis quirks a brow. “What did you tell him?”
“Same thing as always.” Olric’s eyes peer out the window intensely, as if he could will his brother to appear through the rain.
“I think you’re good.” Ryis says. This was a trap that was months in the making.
There were still many things that Ryis did not know about March. Some of them would probably always be a mystery to him.
But matters of pride? Ryis has got him in one.
“Hell yeah!” he cheers, catching a glimpse of a figure trudging in from the direction of town. “Alright, places! I am, once again, begging y’all to be cool.”
Ryis hears Errol’s voice, affronted. “Begging your pardon, young man. We are cool.”
“Hear, hear.” A clink of glass, barely audible over the drizzling rain.
Olric sniffs. “He’s right. Errol is so cool.”
Ryis reckons he has a split second to look back at the gathering in his shop. Warmth hits his chest as he takes it all in. Olric has a hand on Errol’s bulky shoulder; the old miner is bashful, and Ryis’ uncle has a ‘chopped-liver’ expression.
Yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.
Just fine, Ryis thinks, grinning. The door opens.
The best part of the night, for Ryis… is seeing March’s valiant attempts to keep playing the fool.
Frankly, though, it’s his scene partners who need some notes.
It all begins as usual, with Landen cracking open a few beers and reminiscing with Errol about the past. Olric watches both of them, wide-eyed, as if he’s never heard the stories they tell a hundred times before.
Stage one, complete.
This time, however, even with March and Ryis a distance away from the old-timers and his brother, the two of them are pulled closer and closer, until Landen’s recollections become a jumping board. One that he and Errol leap off of together as they connect their memories with March’s many, many achievements.
March takes to glowering off into the middle distance, and Ryis bites his fist. (He’s not entirely sure whether he’s overjoyed because of his own affection, or because he’s actually some kind of sadist. One look at Olric, though, confirms they have the same affliction.)
Olric does his best to sit and listen. The intrusive thoughts win.
Spring 16, evening.
All of it was rather mortifying, March felt.
But it’s when Olric proudly announces, as if it is some kind of epiphany, “It’s March’s birthday!” that March’s mind collapses in on itself like a dying star.
The gravity yanks his head down with a clunk onto the wood table in front of him.
It’s like he knows when Errol’s eyes crinkle. Hears exactly when Landen smiles, while he says, “Is that so?”
March’s head has just popped back up so he can start screaming in earnest when he catches Ryis mouth to his uncle, 'You aren’t slick,' while producing a Caldosian Chocolate Cake.
“Listen up,” Ryis says, sternly. “Reina spent all Sunday with Darcy trying to get this right, and if you don’t eat it, I will tell her. And she will cry. Is that clear?”
It’s like a cool breeze, Ryis’ voice.
March relaxes, a bit.
He looks at the cake. It’s a thing of beauty.
“There’s a piece missing,” March points out, grinning.
“Queen’s tax, dude,” says Ryis, passing him a plateful and accompanying fork.
March is just starting to believe it’s actually going to be okay, when the door opens –
– and it isn’t.
Landen is first to act. “There you are! Right on time. Come in, get warmed up.”
Ryis dips out. “I’ll get you a towel,” he says to the farmer, sheepishly.
Mel eyes the little puddles forming on the floor, growing steadily from the rainwater dripping off the ends of her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Nonsense, Miss Melpomene!” Errol raises up a beer in offering, to which Mel shakes her head. “I hear from Landen that you are eager to expand your husbandry repertoire!”
March chokes.
Luckily, while he coughs, Ryis chooses then to loudly clamber down the stairs, sidestepping through the gathering until he is back at the front door with the farm girl.
Olric pounds on March’s back. Painfully.
Ryis appears to clock a look of hesitation on her face. He all but drops the towel into her arms with a “Catch, Mel!”
“This really isn't necessary,” Melpomene begins to say, but then, “Oh.” Without seeming to cognitively think to do so, she buries her face into the towel.
Landen, who had been rooting around in the workshop area during this exchange, raises his voice so it carries across the room. “Mel, you cannot expect us to turn you away, back out towards the elements! You'll catch your death! Don't you realize that Valen would kill us for it?”
“I'm pretty sure I heard Valen say she was a pacifist, one time,” Ryis says. He corrals Mel past the carpentry counter further into the shop.
“Where is – aha!” Ryis’ uncle produces a bundle of parchment with a flourish, then addresses his nephew. “That may be so,” he concedes, “and yet, sometimes I can't help but feel there's a kind of violence in her face, when she disapproves.” Landen winks at Mel.
She smiles, somewhat conspiratorial.
March, once again, finds himself close to screaming.
The conversation flows, and she is once more accepted as if she had been there from the beginning. Despite it being very clear to March that Melpomene didn’t want to be there.
(Nobody seems to catch it when he mumbles under his breath, “What, does she not own an umbrella?”)
The longer she stays, the more sour March feels – especially when the topic of conversation shifts to the restoration of the mill.
Not only does the whole concept of this gathering seem distasteful to her (she doesn’t accept any offers of drink or cake, which didn’t come from March, by the way) but she also cannot be bothered to pay strict attention to the words of the people around her.
Her eyes flicker over to his own several times.
Waiting for his round of applause to begin for her, no doubt.
As the conversations branch out, Mel catches his gaze.
He looks away.
Stupid.
In his periphery, she raises a brow. He glances back down at the blueprints placed neatly in front of her.
He jabs his fork aggressively into the last bit of cake on his plate. “You fancy you’re some kind of chicken farmer?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “ I can't say that the idea of fresh eggs isn't appealing to me.” She looks down at her hands in her lap.
Sweetness bursts across his tongue as he considers her, eyes narrowing.
The cake was, without question, the best he'd ever had. He indulgently scrapes at the leftover frosting, debating internally the merits of simple sarcasm versus petty insults.
As he deliberates, Mel’s eyes drag back up to his; hers widen. He draws in a breath and prepares to strike – but she gets there first.
“Oh, would you look at that, the weather's much better than it was earlier!” A touch too loud for March alone, and he doubts her enough that he steals a look out the window.
When he glances back, he sees that the blueprints have disappeared into her bag – only after he processes that she is suddenly much, much closer to him than she was before.
He leans back. He spots the reason for her intrusion; she’s slid something toward him.
March's heart skips a beat, already instinctively reaching for it. He swallows, but covers it up by saying, grumpily, “What's this? …A commission? Right now? ”
He doesn't catch her reply. He pulls on the pink ribbon tied to keep the cloth around the object in place. His mouth falls open.
Her escape is not nearly quick enough – even with her hand on the doorknob, he is able to get out, “Did Olric put you up to this?! ”
She ignores him.
Unbelievable – !
She shoots a grin back towards the interior of the shop.
“Goodnight, everyone! Thanks for having me!” She shouts, and is echoed by ‘G'night!’ and ‘Night, Mel!’.
The door slams shut, and March has nothing to contend with.
Save for his own feelings.
Some time later, when most of their company has bade them farewell, and March has turned the perfect piece of copper ore over and over in his hands more than a dozen times, he realizes Olric has been speaking excitedly at him.
“ – she got it from? Maybe she wrote it down in the note, could you imagine if there are more deposits like this in the mines? I literally never found anything this big. They probably got loosened up by the earthquake! Dude,” He starts again, grabbing him by the ears.
“Bro, stop.” March shakes himself free.
Olric snatches the ore from his hands. March curses and lunges at him, prompting Ryis to yell, “Oi! What did I say about roughhousing in the shop?”
“I’m only trying to encourage my brother to read the card,” Olric pouts, cradling March in a headlock primed for noogies. “Ouchies!”
Olric shakes out his bitten hand while March, triumphantly, holds the ore — his gift, the gift to March — aloft.
After this display, March clears his throat. “It’s fine, Ryis.”
Ryis shakes his head, mournfully putting a hand across chest. “What is this hypocrisy? I laughed too close to the forge one time, and you banned me for a week! A full week, March!”
Olric’s expression turns serious. “My dude. We’ve talked about this. If you’re gonna laugh at Holt’s puns, do it in the comfort of your own home. Not at our place of business. It’s bad for sales,” he starts ticking off fingers, “productivity, and most importantly, employee well-being. Right, boss?”
March does not reply. He barely processes the fact that they are looking at each other.
“Right, March?” says Ryis, voice teasing.
“What?” He snaps the card closed, placing it as far away from him on the table as possible.
“Nevermind,” Olric goes. “What did it say?”
“Nothing,” March replies, easily. “Nothing about where she found it,” he amends. “I think I get what that thing was on our door. The one from this morning, I mean.” He crosses his arms. “You ready to head out?”
The rain – of course – had stopped completely. By the time they begin the walk back, the sun is setting.
Steam rises off the ground, and although water still drips from trees, pooling in the divots of the earth where many people have stepped before, March feels warmth radiate from the grass into his shoes.
It's a last-second effort from the day to undo the abundance of moisture that makes the air itself feel weighted.
Olric is humming to himself. In one hand, he carries the cake’s leftovers (which were certain not to be long for this world). In the other, the card from Mel (and also, apparently, Maple and Luc) rests open in his palm.
(March had unsuccessfully tried to ‘forget’ it at the carpentry shop. Foiled, once more, by his brother, who stowed it underneath the cake. When he held it up to March, all wiggling eyebrows, he sighed. “Go ahead,” March said, gruffly.)
March pretends to be lost in thought – and…
As the thoughts drift in nature toward the object that lay at the bottom of his bag, he has to accept that he is. A little.
But still, he keeps an eye on the path under his brother’s feet, pointing out any upcoming roots or cracks in the road.
Olric is engrossed in his reading, but steps up high whenever March instructs him to. March suspects that Olric has read it over a few times – there wasn’t that much to read, honestly – because it takes him until March is holding open the door to their shop for Olric to let out a long, exaggerated, “Ohhhh.”
He nods, gesturing his chin toward the crumpled, red paper they set out to dry on a table. “So that’s Dell’s card. Makes sense.” He pauses thoughtfully. “But why didn’t it have a ‘happy birthday’ on it? And what was with the ‘4’?”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Okay.” Olric smiles. “I won’t eat the rest of this cake.”
Silence.
“Not one bite,” his brother says serenely, reassuring March of nothing.
Later, with the cake stowed safely in his own room, the card resting face-down on his bedside table, it really strikes March just how beautiful the ore is.
He’s seen some good pieces before. If this one had the look of the ones he’d seen on display – polished, with the stubborn grit that coated it scraped away with a fine touch – he might’ve accused the farmer of simply purchasing one.
But this one is raw. Hewn from stone by a strong, if unpracticed, hand.
He imagines the effort it must have taken her to try to keep it in one piece. March knew that, if it were him who found it, he would’ve spent weeks gently trying to coax the ore from its shell. He’d, no doubt, massively overthink it –
...Exactly how he’s overthinking it now.
March exhales.
The more likely option is that the girl simply gave a lucky wack to an already fragile stone, and it crumbled away to reveal this masterpiece of earth.
Scoffing, he puts the copper down softly on top of the card.
Without knowing what it was, she probably debated just chucking it. Or worse, he thinks with abject horror. He could have come across her melting it down at his Forge, completely unaware of just how pure the metal is.
(“What?” she would say, clueless; wide-eyed. “I need a better hoe for my garden, March.”)
She smiles at him, in his imagination.
March nearly breaks down his bedroom door.
Olric sits cross-legged on the floor of his own bedroom, examining the newest additions to his collection.
He likes to have his door open, so as March goes to leave, he calls to him.
“I thought you were going to bed?”
Olric hears him growl, which is his brother’s word for agreement. It also means, ‘be quiet’, and, ‘please pass me the pepper’, or whatever object Olric is currently holding. Very linguistically flexible, depending on the context.
Olric decides, based on cadence and tone, that March means to convey brotherly acknowledgement, as well as a request to let him alone for a little while.
He goes back to his rocks.
It takes some doing, but March is able to get the Forge up, burning red-hot. He’s grateful to Olric for giving him alone time because he knows that he himself would chew Olric’s ass out if he pulled the same shit.
His own voice chastises him internally: working the forge with moisture in the air is for fucking amateurs who need to learn humility by way of the steam burn.
He knows this, he’s said this, and March can’t find it within him to care.
The copper bars he melts down are nowhere near the pristine quality of the ore he leaves sitting next to his bed, but they don’t need to be perfect quality for what he’s making. Besides, March could hammer stone into gold, if he wanted. (Figuratively, of course.)
It’s the idea that Mel might unknowingly sacrifice good materials in exchange for shoddy work that keeps him going.
In this fervor, March works far too late, and far too hard. If others in town are disturbed by his hammering, he assumes his expression deters them enough to avoid confronting him about it.
Olric’s curiosity seems to get the better of him as the late night hours turn into early morning ones. Or he’s actually coming out to complain, because he appears just as March has dipped his creation into the trough of oil.
He’s yawning, and there’s a bit of chocolate smeared on his cheek that March had not seen before. “Whatcha got there, Stomps?”
The shape is not exactly obvious without a handle, something that March had been musing about getting from Ryis tomorrow – it would need to be lightweight, yet not so much so that it becomes cumbersome to lift; maintaining a good balance between the tool’s broad blade and the length of reach it would need in order to work well.
March doesn’t immediately answer him, rotating the cooling, flat blade with his tongs. Eyeing the scale building up on the metal’s surface, he moves over to the anvil. His brother passes him a wire brush.
They work together automatically. Olric encourages the forge’s heat back up while March scrubs the residue away.
Once he’s satisfied, March smiles, and delivers the blade back into the forge for tempering. He pulls up the stool they keep nearby, and begins his watch.
He’s exhausted.
He’s pleased.
Eyes kept steady on the shifting color, March waves his brother off to bed.
It’s not typical for March to name the pieces he makes, unless they are weapons. But in a way, as he blinks away his tiredness, he thinks the answer to Olric’s question – the name of this object – the weapon against the source of all his ire – it’s –
The Forge sparks.
Vengeance.