Mining Fire
Inspired by the SFF challenge on the Dove.
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Daja remembers the first time she saw him, eyes like melting rock and too loud voice. He was angry, furious at a thief who stole his shakkan. That's what she called Briar then- thief.
The man didn't have a name yet.
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The months shift like softening metal, and she learns bits and pieces about Crane, mines them from Lark and Rosethorn like the information is gold (gold and valuable).
She hasn't seen him for weeks (stays away from the greenhouses and keeps by the warmth of the forges) but the blue pox throws them into contact.
Crane visits the cottage, spots like red iron blooming in his cheeks. He is distressed and angry, and Daja can see through him. His tongue is sharper than ever, but his words roll off her back. He cares, she notes, about Rosethorn. About what will happen to them all. The thought makes her smile, a smile that is still tucked into the corners of her mouth until she learns she has to leave Discipline for Frostpines.
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They work at the forge until time loses meaning, until seconds and hours meld together in a solid stream of fire.
She knows nothing but the feel of metal twisting between her fingers, the smell that stings her nose. A war could be happening outside the stone stoop, and Daja wouldn't notice.
Crane brings the war with him one day, while Kirel is fetching water and Frostpine is called away by a water dedicate. There is only Daja.
"Where is Frostpine?" Crane raises his eyebrows and his voice. "Did he think my request for boxes was unimportant?" Did he think I was unimportant, Daja hears.
She shakes her head, wets her dry lips. "Yelling doesn't help any." She's trembling from fatigue and talking to a dedicate that way, but her body is too exhausted to treat Crane any differently.
His eyes widen. "I won't tolerate that tone-" he begins, but is interrupted by the clatter of metal on stone as Daja sets down her tongs.
She doesn't like to be angry- angry is the product of hurt, and that is something she won't let herself be. She keeps her emotions muted, dull beneath her skin, for her protection. Crane is different- he uses his anger like a cloak; it protects him from feeling anything besides what he chooses. She has learned that much from watching him.
Tired and empty from using her magic, Daja crosses the forge and rests a hand on Crane's arm. The dedicate looks at her, for a moment she thinks he will pluck it off, but then his fingers cover hers.
"I'm just as worried as you," she tells him softly. "We'll finish, I promise."
Crane parts his lips to retort, but closes his mouth after a second's pause. He folds her fingers back against her palm, and his thumb traces a path like vines on the back of her hand. She wonders if he can feel how drained she is. "Tell Frostpine I'll send a dedicate to pick up the finished boxes."
Before she can think of anything to reply, he's gone in a swish of robes, leaving nothing but the crackling flames of the hearth, and the knowledge that she was right about him all along.
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