Work Text:
The nobles of Fontaine tend to be particular about their weaponry.
It’s something that he’s never really understood. To him, the most important aspects of a weapon are those pertaining to its use. A well-crafted blade must have proper balance, sharpness, weight. Must be devoid of meaningless frills that hinder its use.
But practicality is not what sells. He has learned, painstakingly, over the many years of his apprenticeship all the different, varied, pointless ways to decorate a blade. How to mold the metal to your will, how to add flourishes without compromising balance. How to engrave designs that mean nothing to him and everything to the wielder. How to impart vivid colors on something designed to be stained red with blood. He has never understood it, but he had a knack for it, and so he mastered the art. It was, as many of his decisions are, based on practicality. He was a stranger in a strange land who barely knew anything of his past, let alone his present. Who washed up cold and alone and dripping water on the shore, with no memory of his name or home.
He was granted an opportunity to learn. He took it. It gives him stability, a way to keep a roof over his head, a way to stay safe. Survival can substitute for passion in times like these.
He does not regret it.
(Sometimes, he wonders what could have been.)
~=~
There are times where the sparks on his forge look brighter than he should. Little half glimpses of a reality that has long died, white hot flame that he did not need to struggle to control. He will look away from the red-hot metal for a moment, chasing the memory of flame. A blink later, and the dream will fade as swiftly as it came to him.
He dreams often of a different place from here. Milder, with a sun that shone gently, not as oppressively hot as Fontaine’s humid summer air. He dreams of arms that hold him and a voice that calms him, that he loves, that loves him.
More than anything else, he dreams of fire. Fire, burning ceaselessly at his side, a constant companion in the darkness, a herald of the dawn to come. Dancing at his fingertips without singeing him - to be injured by it is unthinkable.
(His hands are riddled with scars now. Long trailing tangling burns, sunk into his skin, warping it.)
The dreams fade as soon as he wakes. They vanish into the part of his mind that is filled with fog, that is clouded over by seawater and chills. They disappear alongside his name and self and home, and his heat-bitten fingers have no means to retrieve them.
He continues.
~=~
The nobles of Fontaine are particular about their weaponry. It must balance style and function, as all things do - it must draw blood with a smile. It’s why he has to smile, too, tie his hair a little higher than he usually would, ensure his sleeves aren’t ash-stained, speak politely and with the expected accent and social graces. It is not enough to be practical. Appearances are half of the purpose.
No one can see the holes in your mind if your smile is bright enough. No one can know of the home you lack if the forge is bright enough. No one can notice the pain in your heart if you devote yourself to your work - fraught hands cannot create beauty, nor can fraught minds, and so he has neither.
He is beginning to appreciate the logic. It helps him feel less vulnerable. Helps the world make more sense, narrow as it is.
(Perhaps that is why even blades are to be decorated - so that the blood that drips from them appears more tasteful.)