Fic Two was requested by book-series-fandom. "Don't look at me likee that, I don't want pity."
"Stop it," muttered Gunther, despite the pain in his lip.
Smithy sighed as though he had expected the order, and had no intention of heeding it. "Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that. I do not need your pity."
"I do not pity you," said Smithy, returning his medical supplies to the small chest where he kept them stored.
They were intended for for his duties in the care of the castle animals, and it humiliated Gunther to have his wounds treated with such undignified equipment, although he had noticed the kit had become somewhat more sophisticated since his first late night visit to the forge.
"I think you a fool," Smithy continued, breaking Gunther from his thoughts. He dunked a cloth into the trough beside the forge and returned to press it against Gunther's jaw, before using it to clean away the dried trail of blood from his neck.
He was surprisingly gentle for a large man who spent his days beating metal into submission, and Gunther closed his eyes and tried not to wince through his ministrations. He had learnt some time ago that there was no point in arguing; Smithy would be done when he was done, one simply had to sit still in the meantime.
"No one would think anything of it if you moved into the knights' quarters," he said, gently turning Gunther's head from side to side and inspecting his work. "It would be far less suspicious than all of these bruises. No one really thinks you go fighting in the tavern."
"Jane does," Gunther pointed out.
"Jane is an honest soul, she does not expect deception from her friends -least of all a fellow apprentice."
Gunther felt the familiar guilt rising in his stomach. He did not enjoy misleading his comrades, and yet . . .
"He is my father, Smithy."
"He hurts you," pointed out the smith bluntly.
"He is the only family I have."
"And you are the only family he has, but that does not stay his hand."
"I cannot leave him. Not yet." Gunther had considered it, of course. Sometimes anger would overwhelm him and he would plan his escape, imagine never speaking to the man again, but when the time came to follow through his will deserted him and all that was left was shame, guilt and fear. Not that he would ever tell anyone that, not even Smithy.
"Then at least defend yourself," Smithy tossed the cloth onto the pile of rags he used in his work.
"I can not hurt an unarmed old man," said Gunther, refusing to meet the other man's eyes. He knew it was a poor excuse.
Smithy sighed again. "Do as you will; you are your own man. But do not seek me out to tend to your wounds next time."
"No, Smithy," said Gunther, standing.
The older man turned to stoke the fires of his forge and the younger walked towards the training yard, cold grey morning light once more dissolving their solemn camaraderie.
Both men knew there would be a next time, and that when it came Gunther would slink into the forge like wounded animal, and Smithy, as ever, would not refuse him aid.