Steel and Spirit

HENRY

I was waiting for something extraordinary
but as the years wasted on...

Henry's heard something about a new weaponsmith in the Grounds, so, before LongNight takes hold, he's decided to pay the man a visit. Only, where to find him... that's the trickier part. He realizes that, in all of his excitement to finally get himself a sword, he forgot to ask. Well, shit, here goes a wild goose chase. It wouldn't be the first, unfortunately. I've really gotta learn to ask more questions.

So he meanders through the Sanctuary of the Grounds in the midst of a dark evening. He's making attempts at asking for any information but finding no luck. Seems like this smithy is really new, most people still don't even know about him. Okay, fair enough. After plenty of frustrated sighing and walking back and forth in a general vicinity where he thinks he might be closing in on where a weaponsmith would be setting up shop, he thinks he might have actually found him.

The man before him, back turned to Henry as he is busy with something or someone else, is shorter than expected, with longer and whiter hair than expected. Is he old? Not that it really matters, Henry supposes. His parents are plenty older than him, and his grandparents before them worked hard until the day they passed.

A little short of breath, Henry takes a moment to collect himself, and then comes around to face the other man properly. "Hey, um, are you..." Shit. He doesn't remember the name given to him. Also this guy appears... way younger than expected. Oh. He's an Ascended. Or, at least, Henry assumes this, because that's the norm for the Grounds. "...the weaponsmith?" He glances away and back again awkwardly.

"You've gotta be," he offers an out-of-breath laugh, "because I've been looking for you up, down, and all around the Sanctuary. And nobody has been very helpful in pointing you out. Name's Henry." His smile is warming as he extends his hand out to shake the other man's.

nothing ever did
unless I caused it

Aamu

The white hair is a long braid down his back, a little dusty, a little dirty, soot-stained and tangled. A leather cord holds it together; it was done up earlier in the day, and not three centuries ago.

By himself, and not by some sad specter of his past.

Aamu knows one thing very well: he needs something to do. He needs something to pass the hours with, a source of income, because he's still walking around in the same thin and threadbare clothes he was dug up in, but mostly he needs a sense of permanence. Purpose. A focal point as he puts off going to The Voice with his questions.

And what can he do? He's weak in the sunlight still, a dull, brittle blade, and no war rages. He has to look elsewhere, to skills more mundane, less lethal, pieces of a past he hasn't quite put back together yet.

It worked out in such a way that the local blacksmith was willing to share her forge, letting the Ascended do business by night—pointy things, sharp things, something his hands remember even though his brain barely does. He gets the curious feeling a part of him had thought he was done smithing swords for the rest of his unnatural life, but it seems he's proven wrong.

He's just doing something or the other, getting familiar with this stranger's forge, when he senses someone behind him. Aamu straightens up to face him, one eyebrow gently raised in question. Indeed, who is he? Some old ghost come back to haunt.

The weaponsmith—oh, yes. But that is not all, as the other rambles on, and slowly the smile spreads across Aamu's face; small, crooked, wry. His eyes soften with amusement. "And yet, you found me," he offers in that light, lilting voice of his, something archaic snaking around the words. "Aamu." His hand is cool, perhaps too cold; Aamu has trouble discerning when to wear gloves to protect himself, after all.

His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in thought. In truth, he had not expected someone to look for him, and in some ways, he's thrown by how surprisingly handsome he is. Rugged, charming—it doesn't matter in the end, but for now it's .. odd. He's not sure how he feels about it.

"What can I help you with?"

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

HENRY

I was waiting for something extraordinary
but as the years wasted on...

Well, Henry's wearing a thick pair of fleece-lined gloves, so if Aamu's hands are very cold, it's not something he notices. Even if he did, it wouldn't matter much to him. After all, he was trying to be an ally of sorts to the Ascended and the Voice. Which made this all the better.

"Aamu," so repeats Henry, reflecting on the name he's never heard anywhere before. It held an interesting tune, something historic or even.. otherworldly. Far more interesting and thought-provoking than Henry's own, at least. "Quite a name..."

Bluer eyes might narrow at his darker hued gaze (and other places) but, Henry is not easily perturbed by looks and expressions alone. Sure, he's self-confident, knows he's good looking enough, but he's completely unaware in that moment that he's being {sort of} checked out by a 350-year-old dude. That's a compliment... right? Gotta be.

"Well, for starters..." he steps back and looks over the forge with interest, but what he actually says first might come across as unexpected. Now that he's here, he's not exactly in any hurry to get what he came for and leave. "Tell me more about yourself. Where do you come from, Aamu?" He raises his gaze back at Aamu questioningly, and of course he's not intending to sound like he's interrogating the man. Yet, this is Henry's home - always has been, and he's never seen this guy in his entire life. He's pretty and striking, too; a very memorable face. So... Henry's curious, if nothing else, and they may as well get that out of the way.

nothing ever did
unless I caused it

Aamu

Hearing his name repeated back makes him oddly self-conscious, as if he is being weighed, measured, and uncertain of if he will be found wanting. He's still not sure of his place in this new world, merely offers a small, light shrug in response. A name's a name, and he's a poor judge of his own. It's done the job of identifying him well enough over the years, and a decent job of giving him anxiety now.

Ridiculous. Is it the fact that Henry specifically sought him out? Or his pretty face? His bold, cheerful manner?

Maybe it is because, at a glance, he seems to be everything Aamu sometimes wishes he was: truly young, confident, at ease with the world and himself. It is easy to paint your own dreams and desires on another and think you admire them when in truth you only wish you yourself were different—were them, perhaps. As if it will somehow protect him from this, Aamu neatly folds his arms over his chest and leans back against a table.

It's not like he knows Henry anyway, and it's not like there's anything wrong with being Aamu. Sometimes it's just so easy to look at someone else and wish you were more like them, and even more so when your own life is a complete mess and you have so much to mourn that you don't even know where to start.

What he does not expect is to be so frankly questioned about his origins. Aamu's eyebrows shoot up again, his mildly surprised face hiding the despair within him. He's not sure he remembers, and as ever, he hates not being able to give a straight answer. "I want to say Stormbreak," he answers after a few seconds of out-of-place silence, putting his hands against the table and gently hoisting himself onto it. It's tall enough to let him dangle his feet a little. "But I'm really not sure. Might've been Halo. 'But Aamu, surely you should know where you're from'?" he says, mocking himself lightly. "Well, I don't, I could tell you why, but it'd cost you extra." And he winks, playful, bright.

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

HENRY

I was waiting for something extraordinary
but as the years wasted on...

At a glance, Henry is everything anyone would want to be but, most people are... to an extent, of course. It is easy to admire that which you don't know. Henry often feels the same. Not that he realizes that's what's going through Aamu's head in the space between question and answer. No, what Henry's wondering, is why this man has to deliberate so hard on a question that should be fairly easy to answer. Why does it catch him off guard? He almost asks if Aamu is an Outlander, which would easily explain everything.

Only, the answer arrives - and then it changes.

Henry's brows furrow deeply in confusion and his lips purse together, words lost on a flustered breath. The wink is barely acknowledged, the playfulness prompting almost no reaction except for a skeptical flinch of Henry's eyes.

"Okayyy..." He responds, tilts his head, tries to keep up, "So... you're from Caido, though you don't remember where." He rights his head and brings a hand up to scratch his chin, gaze traveling thoughtfully, "and that doesn't concern you at all?" He lifts his eyes expectantly back up at Aamu's pale face. Then, he waves his hand dismissively, "Right, right, that'll cost me extra. Trust me, I've got resources to spare - but you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to..." He shrugs his shoulders, continuing with a more cautious tone, wondering if the Ascended would give a similar answer to his next question. "Can you at least tell me what brings you to the Grounds? Are you here to help...?" and he trails off pointedly, because there's a lot going on that Aamu could be here for - or not. "Sure could use it."

nothing ever did
unless I caused it

Aamu

He's afraid he's misjudged Henry—or just the world in general. Aamu's cavalier, playful answer seems only to give rise to confusion, and he can't tell if it was his attitude or, as Henry puts it, that it doesn't seem to bother him.

Maybe it would, if he was on the outside looking in.

Or maybe it's just the only way he can handle it, without falling into despair. It yawns beneath him, a hungry abyss, and it would be all too easy to fall into it. "I was mostly joking," he says quietly, deflated, arms once again folded over his chest. A flimsy protection, at best, against disappointment, yet there he is, cold and alone. He knows it's dumb, but he feels rejected. "It would concern me, if not for the fact I spent the past few centuries being, mmh, essentially asleep. Does things to your memory." He pauses. "Pretty sure it is Stormbreak, though." Not that it actually matters...

He figures he's spilled all his mysteries now, anyway. He wonders how long it'll be until he's just sad old Aamu in everyone's eyes. His unacknowledged past keeps hovering over him, and he's pretty sure it'll be painful when it crashes down on him. You know, when it actually sinks in. Everything is still like a fever dream, distant and unreal.

Help? He remembers Wessex's transmission, speaking of monsters during LongNight, here in the Grounds, and the growing threat of the Order and the Old God Heralds. "Honestly? I'm here because .. I was invited, I suppose. And because I need to be somewhere, right? You care a lot more about your surroundings when you're conscious."

He sighs. It's not Henry's fault (well, in a way, it is, but hey) that he keeps asking existential questions, but it's very much a case of, the more Aamu talks about it, the more real it feels. Quietly he goes on, "If I can do some good in the process, I'm down for that."

Well. Good for the Ascended and their chosen allies—whoever they are in this day and age.

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

HENRY

I was waiting for something extraordinary
but as the years wasted on...

...Centuries...

Interest replaces any hints of suspicion lingering on his countenance at the admittance. Henry's gaze slides away thoughtfully, perplexedly. His gaze stiffens at the mention of Stormbreak but, he doesn't question the man's strange origins further. There's an awkwardness that has wormed its way between them, and Henry very rarely has this sort of effect on people. He finds that he doesn't much fancy himself an interrogator.

Aamu's answers only confuse him more, anyway. Invited here? What did that mean? It made his brain hurt. What was so hard about it all? If Aamu had turned the questions back on him, giving clear answers would've been easy. He gets the feeling that Aamu is the type of person where easy questions are difficult and difficult questions are easy.

Those types always frazzled him, but he'd try to get along anyway. His gaze lifts back up to Aamu's.

"I would stay and help the Ascended fight the LongNight monsters but, I don't think I'd do much good, as it is," Henry replies, tone grim and quiet, before rising to add, "anyway, Wessex wants me in Torchline for the season. There's an explorer's guild she hopes to start..."

Henry smiles apologetically, "I've lived in the Grounds my whole life, so I hope you understand if I get curious about the people that visit. Especially since things have been tense recently." He shakes his head, thinking about all that's been going on - whether he knew the details was unimportant because he could see the gravity of the big picture.

"What I really wanted to talk to you about was possibly working out a trade. I need a well-made sword - sheath too - as soon as possible."

nothing ever did
unless I caused it

Aamu

It's too late to keep that cat contained now, but he's struck by the idea of just not telling anyone else the circumstances of how and why he's suddenly around. He's already been mistaken for an Outlander or a dear departed in every single encounter, so why didn't he just roll with that? (Too honest.) He suspects it would've made things a lot easier. Just pretend he'd been a hermit who died prematurely in some unfortunate accident fifty years ago instead, and then decided to come back when given a chance.

It'd spare him this, at least, the confused you weren't dead?, Wessex's awe-struck face, Henry looking away like.. Yeah, like what? The guy's just looking away, and Aamu can't read it. Is it because he's faced with the idea of someone hibernating for three centuries? Or does he think Aamu's completely bonkers?

Maybe both, or something else entirely.

He sits there and tries not to fidget too much during the second it takes Henry to process. At least he comes with some sort of 'approved by Wessex' stamp. "Of course," he responds, mild and mellow, on the subject of curiosity and the unknown. "And hey, a season in Torchline doesn't sound so bad."

Compared to fighting ancient monsters, at the very least. Aamu feels it is best to leave the subject of the past as it is, until he's had time to figure out why he feels so dejected, and Henry has had time to process just what is sitting in front of him. So he is more than happy to let the talk turn to—swords.

He knew some sort of weapons request was going to come, but.. a sword? Henry doesn't look the sword-fighting type. Hard-working type? Yes. Swordy? .. not really. Aamu judges silently. "How long have you got?" It's vital to know. Two days? Aamu can make you a sword. Won't be amazing, but serviceable. A week? Aamu can make you a better sword. A month or two? Aamu can make you a fucking masterpiece.

Well. If he can get the materials. Right now he guesses he can only get something at 'better sword' level, anyway. "And what type of sword?"

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

sacrifice what you are for what you can become

Henry tilts his head this way and that, as if he doesn't quite want to agree but he has to because it's true. "No, not so bad as LongNight... Torchline will be a lot safer for me," he mumbles in half-hearted agreeance. And he doesn't have to face a dark part of his past while he's there, either. Usually in LongNight, he could do little else with his mind than think about his friend he'd lost to the monsters. They would mimic the voice he knew, attempting to lure him out into the darkness; a terrible kind of torture. "I hope that, after this is over, we won't have to worry about the monsters anymore. At least, not to the same degree..."

Judge all you want, Aamu, because... you're right. Henry's not a 'swordy type', and he knows it too. But he intends to practice and learn under the tutelage of someone quite specific. He intends to become the type that might wield a sword with vigor and finesse. One can dream, can't they?

Henry's definition of 'as soon as possible' is quite understanding of the intricacies of weaponmaking. "I can wait as long as the beginning of Flowerbirth, but I'm hoping it won't take much longer than that. I need something resilient, good quality," he nods with his own words, "I know that will take longer than a few days, and since I'll be in Torchline, I won't have a dire need for it."

"A shortsword will do, I think. Something wieldy, that I can use one-handed," he decides, "I can offer materials in exchange. Leather, sheepskin, clothing. Those are easiest for me to get you but, if you want something specific, I can probably see about it."

HENRY

Aamu

Is that reluctance? It sounds like reluctance, and it looks like reluctance, and Aamu's head tilts to the side (and stays on that one side, compared to Henry grudgingly working up to agreeing). Aamu's lips purse in a thoughtful expression, one slender, scarred finger tapping against his arm. He'd agreed with himself to drop the subject of his past, not necessarily the subject of Torchline, and he feels like there's something here—

"That's the intention," he agrees softly, knowing that he is on dangerous ground here: he is the impostor, the interloper, the stranger, privy to the plans and part of them by virtue of his worship, and nothing he personally has ever done. He's not the one born from this arid soil from which only the tenuous and hardy spring. "Does it make you feel like you're—running away? Forced out of a fight you feel you should be part of?" The question is equally mellow, hesitant, musing, but to him, it seems the logical conclusion. This is the battle for Henry's homeland, after all, and he's told to go sit it out somewhere safe on a beach, sippin' drinks. He has every right to be frustrated, no matter how foolishly dangerous it would be to stay when they're about to invite hell.

And at least the not-so-very-swordy Henry has a sensible head on his shoulders. Aamu's pleased about this, but not surprised; any farmer's lad (and what else could you have been, living in the trapped Grounds? Aamu's very judgmental today, or maybe just goes off of what he knows of Mabel) knows a good blacksmith takes their time. "I'll get it done before LongNight," he says anyway, leaving it to Henry to figure out why for himself. Shouldn't be too hard.

As for the sword and trade itself... Aamu desperately wishes he had some swords on hand to show, for nothing's quite as effective as testing them out yourself and feeling how they balance, but he considers Henry's build (a bit difficult to tell with the thick winter clothing) and likely past, the memory of his handshake. Does the mental math and calculations. Average one-handed sword, he decides, maybe on the shorter side per the request. Henry should have enough strength to wield it without too much of a fuss. "If you have any leather that would be good for the sheath that would help," he says, before patting his rather worn and threadbare clothing. While it's all mostly whole he does have the look of someone who spent quite some time in a cold and dry grave. "Clothing would be good for myself, though. This'll probably fall apart on me before the season's through."

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

sacrifice what you are for what you can become

Henry's gaze sharpens with an icy glint as it meets Aamu's, the question so bold and direct and accurate that he doesn't know how to answer at first. His jaw feathers as it clenches, rolls, steadies. "No-" he lies, right through his teeth, and he doesn't really know why he is. So he drops the act, drops the tension in his eyes and sighs angrily, "okay, maybe a little. The odds are stacked against you. All of you. I should be helping, especially since this is my home, too, and I want to make it a safer place for everyone. So maybe.. more people will want to be here, and less people..." well, die. Get taken, tortured, suffer. You know, the usual! He looks away. "Sorry- I should be glad that I can sit this one out but..." all there is, is guilt. Especially if something happens to any one of the Ascended that are putting themselves at risk. The chances of all of them returning from it weren't high, not from what he's seen.

So, more grimly, he nods at Aamu's decision to get it done before LongNight. "It's fine if you don't before then... I'd understand, preparations and everything..." he says solemnly, "but thanks.. I appreciate it."

As for clothes and leather, Henry pulls out a bag he's been carrying with him. After all, he'd intended to come here to ask for a trade. Even if he had to wait, he wasn't going to come empty-handed. He figures it will just motivate Aamu to get him back for this stuff later. "I'll have to get clothes for you. Didn't know your size," he offers a humorous smile, even if it disappears quickly, "but, I assumed you would want leather so I brought that already." He deposits the bag in front of Aamu, or hands it to him. Either way. Within, he'll find plenty of leather to work with, more than he probably needed for a simple sheath. Henry knows this. "Keep the extra. Maybe... fashion yourself some armor, or find someone who can." Henry could work with clothes but, armor wasn't something he made often. He didn't trust himself to make pieces with very much intregrity. Not yet, anyway.

HENRY

Aamu

No? Okay. Aamu's not always on point in his guesses and he can accept that. Henry's eyes are steely, hard, angry, and for a moment the Ascended fears he might've really put his foot in his mouth and overstepped (over-rolled? not sure how you step with a foot in your mouth). He's prepared to offer an apologetic shrug and to try and smooth it over when Henry sighs and tells it to him straight. Aamu was right, or close enough anyway.

"You should not apologize," he says softly, head tilted to the side. "I admire that you want to help, especially in the face of something so dangerous." He does not need a lecture on why he shouldn't. He does not need a lecture on why the Ascended are better suited to fight in the dark. But Aamu thinks, please don't let him take his words as encouragement to stay: it's the last thing he wants, and briefly he closes his eyes.

This LongNight is shaping up to be one real headache. "Don't worry about it," he says dryly. "Not needing to sleep has its perks when the days are short."

He peers at Henry with interest when he begins to pull out a bag. It looks like it's pliable enough, and Aamu chuckles lightly at the comment. He reaches out to accept the offered bag, opening it to peer into it and pull out a few corners, thumbing them to feel how pliable and thick they are. "This is nice. Supple, sturdy enough," and he pushes it back into the bag, making sure it's closed. Looks up in slight surprise when Henry says he can keep the rest. "Thanks."

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

sacrifice what you are for what you can become

Henry's gaze shifts, looking a little guilty, as Aamu closes his eyes. Even if it's brief, it's still a symptom of the conversation being more stressful than anything. Is there really a point in talking about it? Everyone dreads what's coming. Perhaps, Henry tells himself, I should learn to just shut up.

"The important things are always dangerous..." Henry mutters, half-hearted - as if he hates to admit it. In fact, he does hate to admit it. But it's the unfortunate truth of the matter.

He nods shortly in response to Aamu's reasonings for getting the sword to him sooner than expected. "I... hadn't thought of that, to be honest," he says awkwardly, scratching a spot on his head. The leather materials are presented and Henry is glad to hand them over. "Sure," he offers a smile even if it's a little stiff, tacking on a swift, "anything that might help."

"I suppose I should be going, then, leave you to your work..." He lets out a sigh and suddenly thinks of something, "I'll be back before LongNight but, in case I don't talk to you before then... Good luck." It's grim, but it's genuine.

HENRY

Aamu

"Or we only notice when they are," he counters gently. He's not sure why he wants to make Henry feel better, but he does, so he tries—whether he has any success he's not sure. He's just loath to see the young man put himself down like this, but.. as a complete stranger he's not sure his words have any weight whatsoever.

Could also be one of those moods you just need to sulk off.

Ascended life is quite different from regular one, and Aamu merely answers with a kind smile. The idea of never sleeping is different from experiencing what it's actually like to never grow tired.

"Thank you. You too." Aamu's tongue press against the back of his teeth, fingers squeezing his own upper arm while he wishes he could get away with putting it on Henry's shoulder instead, but considering how this whole thing started out he's not sure it'd be taken favorably. He tilts his head slightly to the side. "If you can't find me here I might be at Mabel's farmstead."

Then Henry is going, and Aamu is left there to watch him disappear, much on his mind. He keeps staring in the same direction for a good ten-fifteen minutes before shaking his head and getting to work.

( fin <3 )

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear