Work Text:
March was content with his life in Mistria. He wasn’t just good at his craft, he was great at it, arguably the greatest in all of Aldaria. Everyone needed his help; he loved to be of service. Things were good.
Until they weren’t. Until she arrived.
For reasons beyond his comprehension, this person from the Capital—who knew nothing about life outside the city—managed to prop up an entire, flourishing farm while developing different skills at a breakneck pace. What’s more, she somehow managed to do this in the wake of a devastating earthquake, raising the town rank back in a matter of months despite everything. It definitely warranted more than a little bit of suspicion, but the townsfolk didn't seem to mind the how of it; most of them were simply grateful for a new member in their small community. Most, but not all.
Nowadays, her name is all he ever hears, all anyone ever talks about.
Daphne. Daphne. Daphne.
He can’t seem to escape these conversations, and worst of all, he can’t seem to escape her . Today is just one of those days.
“Hiii March,” she coos as she approaches him from behind his workstation at the forge. She stays quiet for a bit, and he knows she’s watching him intently, likely trying to rip off one of his techniques to create her subpar imitations. Yet people actually put in orders for them. Sure, he still receives a majority of the requests, but he was surprised to find a sizable chunk of them addressed to her. If he didn’t come to view the townsfolk as family, he’d find the whole situation downright insulting.
“Hm, Daphne,” he replies. “Is it just me, or are you getting more skilled…” He grins, feeling the girl tense in anticipation, perhaps hoping she’ll finally receive his good graces. Not a chance.
“...at breathing down my neck when I'm working?” He huffs, slamming his hammer onto the iron dagger he’s been chipping away at. He can almost feel her deflate, a bubble of warm satisfaction expanding in his chest. Finally , he thinks, this is the part where she gets the memo and leaves me alone for good.
Alas, whatever higher power is out there seems to delight in his suffering, because Daphne persists. She moves closer, walking around to face him and making it near impossible to ignore her.
“Thanks,” she says with a smile, “Always glad to get some positive feedback from you.” He can sense the sarcasm in her voice, but she modulates it in a manner that still comes off as amiable. As usual, long lilac hair frames her face in waves, her skin the color of polished bronze under the morning light. She's in her work overalls, everything a shade of bright pastel, a pink gingham bandana wrapped around her head. Not that these details are important.
“What do you want?” he asks, shooting her a glare before turning his attention back to the dagger, hammering it with more force to smoothen it out. From his peripheral vision, he sees her setting down a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows by the side table next to him.
“Made it myself with Darcy’s recipe,” she explains. “And yes, I recall you mentioning you like hot cocoa with the extra fluffy marshmallows, and no, I didn’t poison it. I worry about your work ethic. Olric says you haven’t stopped since 12:00 AM.”
“Why does he keep telling you things he shouldn’t,” March mutters, wiping his brow with a sigh.
“Well, he does, and that’s good because you’d overwork yourself without someone keeping you in check.” She pushes the mug gently towards him with two fingers, as if nudging him to drink.
“Thanks, but that’s rich coming from you. I overheard Valen telling Errol you fainted by the mines two nights ago,” he counters. “Realizing that country-bumpkin life isn’t worth the real estate?”
Daphne raises a brow, her lips pressed together. She stays silent for a moment, bowing her head to gaze at her feet. “You still think I don’t deserve to be here,” she says, and it’s a statement, rather than a question.
March feels like he’s crossed some line—but that’s fine. That’s the plan. Push her away, regain some semblance of normalcy.
He doesn’t know why he attempts to take it back. “Look, I—”
“No, it’s fine, March. You don’t need to justify your anger. I just don’t understand why you hate me so much.”
“I…” I don’t hate you, I just think your presence ruins the flow of my daily routine and your brand of earnestness bothers me for some reason , is what he wanted to say, but that’s not what came out. “I just don’t get why you need everyone to like you.”
Daphne’s eyes widen a bit as she scoffs. “I don’t need everyone to like me, you just never gave me a chance!”
“See? That’s what I mean,” March replies, setting down his hammer and removing his gloves before crossing his arms. “Does it kill you to know there’s one person who sees right through you, who isn’t praising you for being a saint or the town hero or the cute farme—”
“Cute?”
“Balor’s words, not mine.” March drags a hand down his face and feels it heating up for some reason. “My point is: can’t you just live with the fact that I don’t want to be your friend? That maybe, just maybe, I want you to leave me alone?”
“Okay.”
“Can’t you—wait, what?”
“I said, okay. I promise to leave you alone.” She extends her hand, and he stares at it, genuinely confused.
“Let’s shake on it,” she says softly. “I may be stubborn, but I’m not an asshole who steps over boundaries.”
He hesitates for a moment, before reaching out to gingerly take her hand. It’s rougher than it looks, slightly callused but long and slender. Something like an electric shock travels from his fingertips to his arms, making his face heat up once more.
She gives a firm shake before letting go, awkwardly rubbing her arms like she’s cold, despite the jacket wrapped around her. They gaze at each other for a moment, unsure of what to do next. He hates the unfathomable depths of her eyes, like a plunge into the blue waters of an icy lake—everything about her throws him off balance.
“I’ll uh…see you, I guess. Or not,” Daphne gives a weak smile before turning to leave. March wants to get back to work, but finds himself watching her until she’s nothing but a pinprick on the path back to the Narrows.
The blacksmith flexes his fingers almost instinctively, trying to remove remnants of the electric shock from earlier. He feels a ghost of warmth on his hand, until he reaches for the mug of hot chocolate, which has gotten quite cold.
It’s the same dream again, or nightmare. The one where Daphne’s leaping on stage, bright lights piercing her vision as a sea of faces watch her from the darkness. The music soars, her muscles nothing but the strings of a finely-tuned instrument, taut and ready, until she hears it. The pop like a gunshot, a feeling of weightlessness—not the ideal kind, but the one that sets her adrift, the world spinning as she finds herself unable to move.
The music continues, but Olga ushers her from the sidelines, supporting her as she struggles to leave the stage. Daphne can hear the crowd’s concerned whispers, cicadas filling her ears with a disconcerting buzz. ‘Why did this have to happen in front of hundreds of people? Why today? Why me?’ These thoughts would always dissipate, remaining unanswered and melting into the dreamscape; which wasn’t a dreamscape at all, but a cruel, subconscious reenactment of life, as she knew it, coming to an end.
“Your Achilles tendon is severely ruptured,” the doctor tells her; she can’t recall his name, only that he’s one of the few in Aldaria who specialized in dance injuries. “I’m sorry, Ms.Villegas, but I’m afraid you’ll need to think of career alternatives…a change in trajectory, so to speak.”
“You mean our finest principal dancer has to retire? At the peak of her career?” Olga, her mentor and the company’s artistic director—a woman who can’t grasp the concept of giving up even if she tries—asks him, her eyebrows raised. “Even with surgery and therapy?”
The doctor re-examines the results on his clipboard. “Under normal circumstances, perhaps that would work. But this is Ms.Villegas’ third major injury, am I correct? Two surgeries in the span of three years: one for a broken foot, another for a stress fracture on the right shin. Then this tendon rupture, again on the right leg, which will require another major surgery,” he explains, the statements lodging themselves into Daphne’s chest with a sharp precision. “Too much strain in too little time. I’m afraid this is the cost. At best, she’ll be walking after a year of intensive therapy. But not dancing.”
Never again.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor says, then a hand, Olga’s, reaching for her own; a squeeze, some mutterings, nothing making any sense. The buzzing returns, a shadowy sea of faces watching her failure. Watching her.
Never again.
All her life, spent on dance, soaking in the applause and attention, relishing in the satisfaction of being the very best, of amounting to something.
Never aga—
“Daphne? Wake up.” Valen’s voice gently breaks through the haze. Daphne sits up, her eyes wide as she takes a sudden, long inhale.
“Shit,” she rasps, rubbing her eyes with the back of her palm. “God, sorry. Sorry, Valen, how…how long was I out for?”
Valen sits beside her, a worry line between her brows. Daphne’s lying on one of the clinic beds—she must’ve passed out near the mines.
“Around two hours, though you were crying in your sleep,” Valen answers as she jots a few things on her clipboard before looking her patient in the eye. “I figured it was better to try to wake you.”
“Thank you…” Daphne stays silent after that, her hand moving to touch her cheek, which is indeed a bit damp.
“Must have been a pretty bad dream,” Valen says, but doesn’t prod—something the farmer has come to respect about the enigmatic doctor.
“It was.”
“Hm,” Valen simply says, nodding before putting on a pair of reading glasses and checking her notes. “Well, your condition is stable now. You overexerted yourself, again . You and Hayden have that in common.”
Daphne can only give an apologetic smile.“Force of habit.”
“Well, try to break the habit, if you can. Doctor’s orders,” Valen says in a tone that carries both the warmth of a gentle pat and the firmness of a reprimand. She gives a small flick of the hand, which signals that Daphne’s been discharged.
The sun is setting when she emerges from Valen’s clinic, the town’s paving stones awash with hues of orange and pink. On the way home, she stops by the bulletin board near the general store, checking for any new requests she might have missed. Nothing, for now. The board looks so much like the one that changed her life in the Capital, with its dirtied parchments and a poster that read: “Want to live a fulfilling life? Join the Adventurer’s Guild, where the journey never ends.”
Daphne smiles at the memory. Cheesy, but it was what she needed at the time, her legs wobbly like a newborn foal but otherwise healed, and everything she’d built her life around taken away. She wanted something to prove she wasn’t just gone . That no fucking ruptured tendon could erase her existence.
Ballet was everything to her; in some ways, the only thing. It was what kept her going, injury after injury, one leap after another. But when the curtains fell, it abandoned her. Posters of her shows, gone. Her name on the dance company list, gone. The other principal dancers gave pitying glances and shoulder squeezes; well-meaning gestures, but unlike her, their lives would go on. If they were lucky, ballet would never abandon them: they would abandon it, when the time came and age no longer permitted them to set the stage alight.
Yet on that cloudy day in the Capital, her heart aching—still aching, even now—and wanting nothing more than to escape the suffocation of shame and helplessness, that crusty poster was a lifeboat tossed into a dark and endless sea.
She shakes herself out of her reverie and continues on the path back home, turning to cross the bridge over the river before making her way down the beaten path of her farm. Caldarus towers over a small section of her property, surrounded by stone fixtures she crafted. Tonight, like many other nights, she feels compelled to sit on the bench next to the dragon.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The statue’s deep voice cuts through the cool air.
“The sky?” she asks, staring at his incomprehensible expression.
“Mm, yes,” he replies. “The stars seem brighter than usual tonight, and plentiful…I sense your trip to the mines didn’t go as planned.”
“No, but when does it ever go as planned?” She laughs, leaning back to get a better look at the expanse of blue-black darkness above her.
It could’ve been her imagination, but she thinks she can hear a series of low rumbles, as though Caldarus is chuckling alongside her.
“Tomorrow may surprise you,” he says. Daphne smiles at that, closing her eyes.
This may not be the life she imagined for herself, but she lives it on her own terms. She’ll never let anyone decide how her story is going to end.
It’s been two straight weeks since March last talked to Daphne. No more surprise visits, sudden gifts, or quips and remarks that would throw off his entire schedule.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful. This is exactly what he needed. Now, he’s free to concentrate on today’s job: making a new piece of armor for Errol.
THUNK. He strikes his hammer at just the right angle, a signature technique that's won him countless competitions.
THUNK . Strange how Daphne managed to stay away despite how small the town is. Unless something happened to her.
THUNK. He recalls Valen’s words to Errol on a Friday night at the inn: “The poor girl keeps collapsing near the mines or on the way home. I’m surprised she gets any sleep at all; she’d work non-stop if she could.”
THUNK . Why is he thinking about her? He needs to focus.
THUNK . She’s probably okay. News would go around if she wasn’t. And even if something did happen, it’s not his business.
THUNK . Besides, she’s an idiot for entering the mines with that rusty excuse for a sword. Her farming tools are also abysmal, especially that flimsy hoe that always looks like it’s one dig away from falling apart.
THUNK . Stupid. THUNK . Stupid. THUNK . Stupid. He could make better weapons and tools with his eyes closed, ones that wouldn’t get her killed.
THUNK . Everything. THUNK. Is. THUNK. Fine.
He stops hammering, tossing the tool to the side. Beads of sweat trickle down his brow as he stares at the piece of armor, realizing how heavy-handed he’s been, parts of it uneven and not at all how he intended it to be.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Even when she’s not here, Daphne is a liability.
He needs a break.
“Hey bro!” Olric walks towards him, having obviously come from his afternoon workout and looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “Did you take breaks today?”
“No.”
“C’mon man, you gotta get some fresh air.” His older brother gives him a bone-crushing, damp hug before moving to untie his work apron and setting it aside.
“Well…” March grumbles, “I'm thinking of heading out to grab some sugar and oil, since we’re nearly out.”
“Well, there you go!” Olric pats him on the back with a force so strong, a stranger might think he was trying to push his younger brother to the next town.
So March heads to the general store, hoping to take his mind off of—
Daphne. He can see her lilac hair swaying from the storefront window. Because again, some higher power relishes in his suffering. Fuck it. March tries to slip in as quietly as he can, making a beeline for one of the shelves in the corner, hoping it’ll hide him until she goes away. But she doesn’t go away. In fact, she doesn’t even notice him entering.
He peeks between the gaps of the shelves. Her light laughter, interspersed with those dorky and uncontrollable snorts, reverberates across the space. He only notices now that there’s someone in front of her; which is crazy considering how Hayden practically towers over the shelves. He’s laughing too, a deep sound that mingles with hers, the two obviously engaged in good conversation. March watches Daphne place a hand on the other farmer’s arm, squeezing it playfully and causing a bloom of red to creep up Hayden’s face. The man doesn’t take his eyes off hers the whole time, and vice versa.
“I swear, that quiche was a fluke, Daph,” Hayden says, clearly flustered.
“It was one of the best quiches I’ve had,” she replies. “You’re a lot more talented than you give yourself credit for.”
“Heh,” Hayden winks, this time drawing a small blush from the girl. “Guess I can’t argue with good taste.”
Daphne quickly regains her composure, flashing that annoying dimpled smile, knowing full well what she’s doing. “Exactly,” she says, softer this time. “And it was really sweet of you to make sure I wasn’t skipping meals. So, maybe we can have a cooking session some time? I teach you a few techniques, you teach me a couple of yours.”
There’s something suggestive about it, like the slow drip of amber that traps an insect. March clenches his fists, his heart hammering. Surely he’s not the only one who sees how she weaponizes her charisma to…do what, exactly?
All March knows is that Daphne has a dangerous kind of allure. He isn’t stupid: he knows a number of bachelors and bachelorettes who’d jump at the chance to date her. He doesn’t care, he’s not one of them. Not like Hayden and Balor, their gazes filled with a pathetic kind of yearning, paired with touches that linger too long, jests that feel like something more. Like flirting.
Were they flirting?
Wait, why should I care? he thinks, mentally kicking himself for spending so much time eavesdropping.
“Alright, next Wednesday sounds good,” he hears Hayden say. Whatever. Fine. His stomach feels queasy and heavy, his chest tight.
Just do what you came here to do, you dolt , he thinks to himself. Quietly, he stalks the shelves, searching for oil and sugar. When he finds them, he checks if the two farmers have finally left. They haven’t: now they’re talking up a storm with Holt, who’s in the middle of sharing his Dad Puns for the week.
Guess he’s going to have to check out the items as quickly as he can.
“Oh hey, March! Didn’t see ya there,” Holt waves at him, stopping the conversation to grab his products and work the register.
“Yeah, just…buying some stuff real quick,” he mutters, not daring to look at Daphne or Hayden. He hopes Hayden doesn’t take it personally, he just…can’t bring himself to make eye contact with the other farmer.
“Well, I should get going,” Daphne says, her tone casual and relaxed. “See ya around Hayden. And thanks, Holt!” She doesn’t acknowledge him. Good. True to her word.
The store’s bell rings when Daphne exits. As soon as Holt hands him his paper bag of groceries, March gives a gruff “thank you” before nodding at Hayden (who flashes his usual warm smile) and heading out.
He can see Daphne walking a few paces ahead of him, making her way back home with a basket full of pumpkin and wheat seeds. Something catches in March’s throat. An itch he needs to scratch, an impulse to shout “Wait!,” or run towards her to say…
He’s not sure what he wants to say. The itch dies as soon as it arises. Once again, he watches her disappear into the distance. There’s a slight limp in the way she walks. It’s almost imperceptible, but he notices it. The shift of weight, a subtle discomfort. When Olric used to work in the mines, injuries were commonplace; certain aches and pains remained long after Valen patched him up.
March remembers something Eiland, Adeline, and Elsie said when Daphne first arrived in town. They were convinced she was a principal dancer in a famous ballet company, back in the Capital. She just…disappeared, Eiland explained, There was an accident on stage, people say. It’s all rather sad. Mother and father used to take us to those shows, and she was really a cut above the rest.
March hits his forehead with the palm of his hand, as if the physical act itself would banish his thoughts and the vice-like grip they have on his chest.
Never mind the break, he needs a drink tomorrow evening. That should loosen him up, set him straight, and more importantly, make him forget all about Daphne and Hayden and the other oddities that plague his mind.
He swears the whole town’s gone crazy since she arrived. Including him, it seems.
March made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with Daphne. Which she thought she didn’t mind, but no one has ever hated her so explicitly , so perhaps she does mind.
Contrary to their last conversation, she doesn’t need everyone to like her. She’s just not used to someone hating her with such devotion. Her life on stage was one built on standing ovations and bouquets, admirers and mindless flings. True, there was competition among the dancers, as with any artistic field; but while she wasn’t always loved, she wasn’t hated either.
Devotion. That’s the best word to describe March. Everything he did was fueled by a deep-seated commitment: to his craft, to his brother, to the town, and of course, to hating her. Okay, maybe not hating her. Disliking her? Either way, it places her in a difficult position because, as abrasive as he is, she’s grown fond of the blacksmith.
His rough edges aside, she finds him to be, unexpectedly, a kindred spirit of sorts. When she watches him work (much to his displeasure), she sees this gleam in his eye and a springiness to his movements. She could recognize that inspired state of determination anywhere: it’s the same one she had as a dancer. Here’s a new technique, a new way of getting better, a new problem to solve. This is a craft, a calling, something a person was put on this earth to do.
The first time she saw March’s handiwork was spring. The sword was moonlight made metal, a silver-blue glow emanating from the inside, long and sharp, symmetrical in all the right ways. Even without much blacksmithing knowledge back then, she knew it was a masterpiece. When he smiled proudly, she fought the urge to take his hand, to say Please never stop . I hope you never stop.
Yet in admiring him, she also finds herself consumed by a certain hunger, the ache of her heart more prominent than ever. I want to make something beautiful again. Something worth working for. Because is there any other way to exist? Building the farm from the ground up is the closest she’s ever felt to rekindling that flame, but it would never be the same.
So yes, she admires and envies March in equal measure. She acknowledges he’s quite attractive, too. Though it seems he’ll never give her a chance, there are surprising, fleeting moments that feel like there’s something more beneath the surface. Moments when his gaze lingers for too long, his words fail him, and his coldness melts into something unrecognizable.
Moments like this Friday night at the inn.
“S-sit with me, Daphne!” March’s words are slurred and it’s clear he’s had his fill of alcohol (which isn’t much, as Olric reminds the townsfolk of his brother’s laughably low tolerance). “Yer…always so,” he hiccups, his cheeks flushed, “Allwayss, sooo busy during the week, y’know…”
Daphne’s sitting beside Reina and Celine, who exchange peculiar, knowing looks.
“I don’t know, March,” is all she can say, because she’s still not used to this side of the blacksmith.
“Prettyy pleassee,” he pouts, reaching out to extend a hand. She hears Ryis choking back a laugh, which is fair: as March’s closest friend, he does have the right to find the entire situation funny. She looks at the carpenter, silently asking him what she should do. He shrugs, but the mischievous glint in his eye betrays his intentions.
“Your call, but March looks like he’s close to crying,” Ryis says, “He is your biggest fan.”
Daphne rolls her eyes at this, but obliges, moving to where March is seated at the bar, and very, very slowly, sitting on the stool next to his, waiting for him to protest or change his mind. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks at her, elbow propped on the countertop, his chin resting on one hand. His cheeks are as red as his hair, and there’s…so much adoration in his gaze.
Is this even the same guy who asked her to stay away from him?
“C’mere, come heeree,” he says, motioning for her to lean closer. “I’ll let ya in on…a lil secret…”
She sighs, but fights a smile. This is rather silly. He can be rather silly. She moves closer and feels his hand reach for her sleeve, clinging to it. His face is just a few inches away from hers, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine. The noise within the inn seems to melt away.
“You’re not so bad,” he says softly. Daphne would’ve needed more time to process the statement if he wasn’t seconds away from falling over his stool.
“Okkayy, that’s enough for tonight,” she says, catching him by the arms and struggling to hold him upright as she hops down her stool.
March laughs and hiccups at the same time, face palming himself. “Ahaha waiitt, what, what was I saying…?”
“I’ll call Olric,” she hears Hayden say, and soon enough March’s older brother is beside her, wrapping the inebriated man’s arm around his neck to lift him up.
“I can take it from here, Daph,” Olric smiles apologetically, giving March a small pat on the head. “Looks like it’s time for us to head home.”
“Hrrgghhh but,” March protests, turning to Daphne with wide, pleading eyes. “Aren’t you coming?”
“March, she still has the rest of the evening ahead,” Olric replies, “We should let her enjoy i—”
“It’s cool,” Daphne cuts in, picking up her backpack and putting it on. “I was thinking of calling it a night, anyways. Long day tomorrow; got two cows who are expecting.”
“You’re sure?” Olric asks.
Daphne nods and moves to take March’s other arm, wrapping it around her neck so she can support him from the opposite side. “Lemme help you take him home.”
They both turn to wave goodbye to the remaining townsfolk before heading out. The autumn air is cool and crisp, a gentle wind blowing leaves here and there. They follow the cobblestone path towards the forge, slowly making their way over the connecting bridge. March is a lot heftier than Daphne imagined, all compact muscle within a small frame. The redhead is humming now, eyes closed with a blissful smile, indulging in a tune only he can hear.
“Hey, so, thanks again for helping me out,” Olric breaks the silence.
“Don’t mention it,” Daphne rolls her shoulders, trying to keep March’s arm from slipping off.
“Well, I kinda feel like I need to…I know it’s not easy. March hasn’t been all that nice to you.”
“That’s fair,” she says, “But really, it’s not a problem. I know you’d do the same for me. It’s just helping a friend out.”
Olric gives a small hum of agreement. “On that note…I do have a favor to ask.”
“I’m all ears.” The older brother seldom asks Daphne for anything, so it must be something important.
“If you could like, give March a chance, that’d be way cool of you,” he says, his voice soft. “He doesn’t have a lot of friends.”
Daphne nods, pondering on what to say. It’s a heartfelt request, the kind that could only come from a place of deep care.
“I…you know I’ve been trying,” she replies. “I like your brother, I do, even with all his quirks. But it’s hard to know what he wants. Like tonight: he’s just this entirely different person. Half the time, I can’t figure out who the real March is. Does he want me gone? Or is he this guy who’s begging me to carry his drunk ass home?”
Olric laughs before letting out a fond yet exasperated sigh. “I get it. He can be…really confusing. I think even he doesn’t know what he wants or how he feels sometimes. He’s also very prideful, but when push comes to shove, he’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
“I know.” Daphne recalls those moments of vulnerability. March playing along with Maple’s imaginary games, voluntarily making repairs without charge, checking in on townsfolk to ensure their equipment is in good shape. A couple of times, she caught him sleeping in front of the forge, a hammer in hand, clearly exhausted from pulling an all-nighter for town projects.
When they finally reach the front door of their house, Olric attempts to pull March away from Daphne, but his brother protests, groaning like a little kid.
“March, c’mon, it’s time for bed,” Olric says.
“But I don’t wanna sleep.” March clings to Daphne’s sleeve, his eyes unfocused but pleading once more. “Don’t wanna gooo.” Then, in a quieter voice. “Don’t want Daphne to go…”
“It’s okay,” she says, taking him by the hand. “I’ll tuck you in. I won’t go yet.”
“Yayyy!” There’s an endearingly genuine glee in March’s voice, which confirms he’s still completely out of it.
With that, Daphne and Olric resume their quest to get him to bed, taking a left to his room and finally setting him down on his blue linen sheets.
“Phew, nice and cozy bro.” Olric stretches and lets out a hearty yawn. “Didn’t realize how late it was. But before that, how about a nice cup of warm milk?”
“I’ll have one,” she smiles. “Thank you.”
“Comin’ right up!” Olric leaves the room, taking care to shut the door quietly.
Daphne takes a moment to survey the space, realizing she’s never actually seen it before. Olric’s, yes, when he wanted to show her his extensive rock collection (which was indeed impressive). But never March. The thought of him relaxing anywhere beyond his workstation was almost unfathomable.
The room is simply furnished, with no other lounging arrangements beyond his bed. Dozens of trophies and medals line a hardwood shelf; next to it is a watering can and a single potted plant (which was verdant and clearly well-cared for). A dressing mirror stands in one corner, with a clothes trunk by the base of the bed, then a framed photograph of the night sky hanging on the wall, and that’s it.
She turns her attention back to the drunken blacksmith, who’s sprawled at a precarious position near the edge of the bed. Woops. Guess they were pretty sloppy when they were putting him down. She makes her way to him, placing an arm behind his back, and taking a deep breath before lifting his upper body ever so slightly, shifting him to a more comfortable position with his head on the pillow. Suddenly, March wraps his arms around her neck, clinging like a koala bear. Holy cow , she thinks as she struggles to breath from the weight of it all. He’s asleep, but still manages to pull her down into an odd half-hug. Fuck. She tries to separate herself from him, but it’s a lot more difficult than she expected.
“Guh, this is a whole workout,” she whispers, releasing a sharp exhale and feeling her face heat up. “Damn blacksmith biceps.”
“Daphne…” he says softly, which startles her. Isn’t he asleep? She pokes his cheek, and he swats her hand away, eyebrows furrowed. He is. Maybe he’s dreaming. Of me? Can this evening get any crazier?
“Stay,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He then nuzzles his face into her neck, which turns her stomach into a fluttering, swirling mess.
“Hey, March,” she replies softly, reaching for his hair to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. She has no idea what she’s doing, only that it feels like the most natural response to the situation. “I’ll stay. I’m here.”
At this he smiles, probably unaware that the real Daphne is talking to him. “Rest…you work hard…keep…fainting…” he mumbles. She can’t help but giggle. So this is him beneath the shell? she thinks. What is he trying to prove by hiding all this?
“You care,” she whispers, and he doesn’t respond. He just continues to bury his face into her neck. She’s become acutely aware of the scent of sage and cedarwood on his skin and clothes, and it’s not helping the prickling heat that’s spreading across her face.
Just then, the door opens, and Olric steps in. Okay, cool. This is totally not an embarrassing position to find herself in. Absolutely, perfectly, fine .
“A little help,” she squeaks, giving him a bashful smile because, okay, this is pretty embarrassing. “Please.”
“Oh gosh,” Olric says, rushing to free her from the clutches of his brother’s arms, then chuckling afterwards. “Sorry about that. Don’t tell him I told you this, but he used to cling to our parents’ legs during thunderstorms and wouldn’t let go. Now it’s just harder ‘cuz he’s gotten a lot stronger.”
She laughs, one because it’s an adorable fact, and two because she can imagine how mortified March would be if he found out she knew this. But there’s no thunderstorm tonight; though she doesn’t point that out. Her head is swirling with questions and feelings she can’t name.
“It’ll be our secret,” she tells Olric. Daphne rubs her arms, her nerves completely rattled. “Anyhoo, I could use that warm cup of milk right about now.”
Olric leads her back to their workspace, where two cups of golden cow’s milk (from Hayden’s farm no less) await them.
“Just so you know,” he says, taking a sip. “I think my brother likes you a lot more than he cares to admit. Just give him some time.”
“I know,” Daphne says.
“You know?”
“Well, I know now. Kind of. I’m, erm, working with a hunch. In vino veritas.”
“Uh, sorry, I don’t speak French, Daph.”
“It’s Latin,” she says gently, “It roughly translates to: ‘In wine there is truth.’”
“Ohhh, but I don’t think March drank wine today.”
She laughs at this, placing a hand on Olric’s shoulder. “No, he didn’t. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ll work on that favor of yours.”
March wakes up with a headache, his eyes bleary and movements sluggish. He makes a silent promise to never drink alcohol again (though he already knows he’s bound to break it).
He turns to his nightstand and finds a steaming cup of cocoa and a plate of sliced oranges greeting him. There’s also a small note in cursive writing. March drags a hand down his face, recognizing the distinctive script. He gingerly takes the paper, unfurling it to read its message.
Drink before it gets cold. No marshmallows, sadly, but here’s some vitamin C. You’re welcome, and take care <3
P.S. You were thoroughly drunk last night, so I helped Olric carry you home, in case you’re wondering why I’m writing to you —D
Relief floods through him, then embarrassment and confusion. Daphne’s talking to him again, which should be a cause for concern or irritation, but it’s not. Rather, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest. Weird.
He grabs the hot chocolate and takes a sip. It’s good. Really, stupidly good. As usual.
He tries to recall events from last night, but nothing comes to mind. There’s just a faint warmth in the recesses of his memories, sensations like the scent of mint and apples, the tickle of hair on his face, and a voice.
I’ll stay. I’m here.
His eyes widen and a rush of heat takes over his cheeks. There’s no fucking way , he thinks, groaning as he buries his face into his hands. It was probably some weird post-drinking dream.
He doesn’t dwell on it, but there’s really no getting away from Daphne Villegas.
March only wanted to give the farmer a new hoe. It was nothing fancy. Just a lightweight tool with features that would reduce fatigue. This way, she won’t bother Valen with her fainting spells. So he wrote to her, asking if she could drop by the forge. Again, no big deal.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he tells her when she enters their shop. She’s wearing a flowery pastel dress this time, and much to his distress, it looks…great.
“Well, here I am,” she says as she examines the tools for sale on the workshop tables.
“I hear you’ve been making yourself useful around town. Everyone only has good things to say about you,” he begins.
“I guess this is where you apologize for your bad attitude.” She gives him a smug look, and it sets off something in his brain, unleashing those ugly, feral emotions that insist he needs the upper hand. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s somehow upstaged him. Of knowing he was wrong.
“Hah, not a chance. We both know what’s actually going on here.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh please,” March says, and he needs to stop talking, he can see Daphne’s shoulders stiffen, her gaze cautious. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He wants to kick himself but the words tumble from his mouth. “You come out here, no money, no experience, and think you can just fake your way through running a farm? And now everyone in town acts like it was you who won the first-place blacksmithing trophy three years running. It’s all fun and games now, but the second things actually get tough, I’m sure you’re going to ditch Mistria and its problems.” It all comes out in a rushed flurry of raw emotions, his heart hammering against his chest.
“Jealousy is an ugly thing, March.” Daphne crosses her arms, clearly upset, but still collected.
“I’m not jealous, we’re not even on the same level.”
“We’re not,” Daphne affirms. “And I’m not here to compete with you, okay? You spend so much time nursing your pride and licking your wounds, yet you’ve never once stopped to wonder if I’m jealous of you .”
He’s taken aback by the revelation, his verbal defense mechanism wavering as he finds himself unable to respond.
“Yes, March,” she continues, her voice dripping with frustration. “This farmer, who appears to be faking her way through life, actually does feel like she’s faking her way through life. Because she’s more than a little lost, and always worried she’s one mistake away from losing it all. From fucking it up. No one knows how she’s cried herself to sleep countless times, hoping she has enough money to grow her next batch of crops. Or that she works herself to exhaustion because she feels the need to be useful, to justify her presence in this town, even when people are so nice to her. Because she doesn’t have much to fall back on, not after losing the on e thing she was good at, the one thing she wanted to do.”
“Dance,” March mutters, loud enough for her to hear.
“So you know,” Daphne says, letting out a bitter laugh. “There you have it. My sob story. Go ahead and blame me for everything else, but don’t fault me for trying to make something out of my life again.”
The room stays quiet after that. March opens his mouth, that itch reappearing, nudging him to throw out a rare apology, but the words get stuck in his throat once more.
“I know it’s hard for you to admit you’re wrong,” she says, noticeably calmer now. “It’s going to take some time for you to unlearn that. But you need to understand how lucky you are. You have the privilege, the choice , to continue pursuing your craft. Your work is amazing, March. I can’t hope to compete, and I don’t ever plan to.”
She sighs, hugging herself in that awkward, protective stance of hers. “Anyway…you called me here?”
March feels that same heaviness in his chest; he wants to rip it out and throw it as far as he can. Instead, he pulls out the hoe from his storage box and offers it to her. He can’t meet her eyes. He won’t. “Well, if you think you can hack it for the long haul. Here. If you fail, you can’t blame it on a lack of help from me.”
He feels her take the tool, and makes the mistake of looking up, once again plunging into the deep blue of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she says, her expression falling somewhere between confusion and gratitude. “How did you…I mean, my hoe just broke yesterday. I actually needed a new one.”
“With how flimsy that old thing was, I’m not surprised,” March grumbles, pausing for a moment before hesitantly adding, “But maybe you’ll surprise me.” He’s lying, of course, because she already has, countless times. There’s no doubt she’ll continue to.
She’s donning a small smile, clutching the hoe to her chest. “I can tell you put a lot of thought and work into making this for your least favorite townie,” she ventures with a teasing lilt. “You know, they say facing conflicts can build stronger friendships,” she says. “Are we friends, March?”
Friends? Only someone as hopelessly earnest as her would say that. He turns around to hide his flush, waving a hand to shoo her off. “I’ll see you around, Daphne.”
He hears her laugh, the tinkling of chimes with those little snorts in between, followed by the closing of their shop door. In the privacy of the room, he lets his face break into a tiny, stupid smile.
This last week of autumn is going to be, March must admit, quite hectic, even by his standards. Requests are pouring in non-stop: since the bridge was repaired, a slew of tourists have been visiting Mistria, giving the town more reason to improve their existing services and infrastructures. While their supply problems aren’t as bad as they were in the wake of the earthquake, importing certain necessities is still a pricey endeavor; the town has to continue being somewhat self-sufficient.
This week, he and Olric are dealing with 15 requests for iron items, from household objects to farming tools. That still doesn’t cover the 10 silver swords that Adeline requested, which she plans to send to the Capital as a showcase of what Mistria has to offer. Normally, March would embrace the large workload: but they also happen to be short on iron ingots, and even shorter on time.
Today, he got up early and spent an hour trying to convince Balor to give him a good cut, which he managed to do on the condition that they’d transport the ingots to the forge themselves. Everything was going fine until he returned to find his brother talking to Daphne in front of their workshop.
March tries to ignore the way his pulse quickens when he sees her. Another distraction on our busiest week? Nope, not happening .
“What do you think you’re doing here, exactly?” March asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Daphne’s dressed for work, her hair tied back in a ponytail and her sleeves rolled up. She’s wearing mint green pants and knee-length boots, which are already covered in mud—she was probably doing farm work since dawn broke.
He looks at Olric, who gives a nervous laugh as he scratches his head. “Wellll, she heard how backed up we were with work, and uh…volunteered to help out! Isn’t that right buddy?”
March’s right eye twitches as he turns his attention to Daphne. She doesn’t look fazed at all, a hand on her hip as she stares him down with those pensive, paralyzing eyes of hers. It feels like he’s being flayed open, and he fights the urge to run. Seeming to sense his discomfort, she smiles, but there’s no malice in it. Just that disgustingly gentle earnestness.
“It’s okay to admit you’re in over your head, March,” she says.
“Well, you can just—” He bites his cheek, swallowing his retort.
Are we friends? March winces at the memory, his heart still thrumming at a dangerous pace. On one hand, though he’ll never admit it, Daphne has really improved in blacksmithing; she could be of actual help. Her work is almost as good as Olric’s. He even told his brother this in passing, but made him promise not to tell a soul. On the other hand, that damn farmer is a walking distraction that always gets his thought processes jumbled up.
March looks at the literal pile of requests stacked on the table, which seems to mock him.
“Fine!” he groans, throwing his hands up. “Fine. But you better be able to keep up. Olric, fetch the ingots from the inn.”
“On it bro!”
“Daphne, get that forge fired up.” She gives him a salute with her wide, dimpled smile, and he clenches his jaw; he swears his veins might pop at any moment. Then the farmer takes off her shirt—wait, what.
Wait, what? March stares as Daphne pulls her long-sleeved shirt over her head, wriggling out to reveal nothing but a tight-fit black tank. Shit.
Her body is a pattern of copper wires tied and twisted into muscles, lithe and firm, the sunlight hitting her skin in a way that makes it shine. He coughs, his breath catching. Fuck, am I choking because I forgot to breathe? This is a new low.
“Uh, March?” She’s waving her hand in front of his face, which snaps him out of his stupor.
“Right, forge. Fire. Now,” he says, clearing his throat and moving away from her to fetch his tools and Not Look At Her Body. Alas, he can’t Not Look because they need to work on these pieces. Fantastic.
Get your fucking act together, he tells himself. The town is counting on you. That shakes him out of the spell, and he stands behind Daphne, who’s already stoking the fire.
“Steady,” he tells her. “Keep the temperature steady.”
She nods, her eyes never leaving the flames. She’s a fast learner, he can’t deny it.
“Good,” he says as the fire rises to his exact specifications.
Olric returns with the ingots, and they get to work. Time flies quickly, and with a bit of guidance, Daphne adjusts herself to his routine, their movements synced like clockwork, almost like a dance. Even their hammering follows a smooth rhythm, the two of them taking turns to nail out details and get things exactly how he wants them.
March isn’t accustomed to this. Seeing someone who isn’t Olric at the opposite side, her face scrunched up in concentration, sweat trailing down her forehead, hair sticking to her face. It feels weird because…it feels right. The exhaustion is probably getting to him.
“And…” he says, taking one last swing of the hammer. “That’s it…I think.”
“That’s everything,” Olric agrees. The three of them look to the sky in unison, which has turned a shade of dark orange. They actually did it. 15 requests in one day.
“Great work everyone!” Daphne says, giving Olric a high-five and March a hug.
“Y-yeah!” he catches himself saying, but realizes he sounds too enthusiastic.“I mean…thanks, Daphne.” Why is everything so unbearably hot? And why does she still smell like mint after all that work?!? His mind races with a million thoughts at once, all of them pointing to a frightening epiphany, one he can’t acknowledge, at least not here. He feels like he’s going to throw up.
He clears his throat, gently freeing himself from Daphne’s hug. Dizziness overtakes him, which never happens, even after a hard day’s work.
“I, uh, I’m going inside, I need to cool down,” he croaks, quickly making his way back to the house. He shuts the door, leaning against it as he takes a deep, shaky breath.
March can’t seem to escape Daphne.
But worse than that, he finds himself not wanting to. Not even a little bit.
This whole town’s gone crazy since she arrived, throwing his head back and shaking it in disbelief as he chokes out a laugh. Including me.