a dovetail join

[sideways]

Title: A Dovetail Join
AO3: Link
Rating: G
Series: Destiny (Jaren Ward)
Wordcount: 1,129
Summary: It's an odd thing, adopting an ageless deathless soldier into your humble mountain community.
Remarks: "Writer can have a little drabble, as a treat," I murmur to myself as I fail to make much headway on more significant writing projects. I have somewhat missed this indulgent niche. As always, aims to be consistent with the worldbuilding details started in Paterfamilias.

◘◘◘

The wind is stiff and stubborn even this side of the palisade walls, blistering Ban’s knuckles and frosting the sweat in his eyebrows. Not a day to be clambering about on rooftops, but housing’s tight as it is and they can’t leave one leaking heat that might lay someone low in a night’s killing cold.

 

The shingle slips and slides under his fingers, as stubborn as the wind; for a moment their stubbornness finds companionship and he has to clap down hard with both hands to prevent the wooden square from flying back into his face. The hammer’s the cost - it spins away down the slope of the roof, and frozen, clumsy reflexes aren’t enough to catch it.

 

Ban curses thickly into his woollen wrap. Then registers, in the next breath, that he hasn’t heard the piece hit the ground.

 

He gets a foot well-braced before he dares lean over the edge. The figure below is examining the hammer in their hand like a lost relic recovered from darkest cavern depths, and the tilt of the head tells Ban who has made the deft catch despite the muffling anonymity of wintering furs.

 

“I’ll thank you for its return, gunslinger,” Ban says, hoarse through a throat gone dry ten minutes past, and determines not to ask how long the man has been standing there.

 

“Will you?” It’s mildly said, as is much that comes from Jaren Ward’s lips. As is much about Jaren, seemingly - a quiet voice, an unhurried stride, a distantly curious thumb tracing the line of the carved maker’s mark twisting down the handle - until he lifts his gaze as he does now, and dark eyes fix with the sharp, present intensity of an eagle with talons sunk deep and wings mantled. Something more, Shin insists, never knowing the ache it leaves in Ban’s heart; but the boy is right. Even the wind doesn’t dare steal Jaren’s mildest words away.

 

The man gestures, broadly, snow already piling about his boots. “Hard conditions to be working in.”

 

“Doesn’t make it any less a work that needs doing.” Ban shifts, ducking his head momentarily against a gust that pulls at every loose thread, the trailing end of the wrap fluttering wildly past his ear. Feels the eyes follow the movement. Says, gruffly, “Is paradise so gentle?”

 

A question too foolish to give answer to, apparently, for Jaren only turns the hammer over between his fingers like an inelegantly weighted blade, and looks out towards the town like he can see every corner of it from where he stands. Perhaps he can.

 

“Don’t usually see you out alone.”

 

Ban grunts, unwilling to speak ill of kinfolk for the judgement of one not yet earned the title. It’s not neglect in most cases anyhow, with Gafrey nursing her wife’s chill, or Shin too likely to blow off the roof altogether. “As you say, gunslinger. Hard conditions.” His foot slips a little; he resettles it, the shingle still pinned flat under numbing fingers. “And unless you’d care to add a welcome second to my number, alone it’s to be; and I’d like to have it done soonest gets me sitting next to a fireplace again.” A cough from deep in his chest as the cold hooks in, his voice roughening. “The hammer, Ward.”

 

The head turns. Ban scarce has time to read the meaning in the raised eyebrows before the Guardian makes movement of his own, and Ban close to startles off the edge as the space in front of him is abruptly filled. A firm grip at one arm keeps him steady until he has traction under his feet again, more curses soaked up by goatshair and breath’s damp. Jaren’s balanced easily on the balls of his feet, patient in his waiting with the gale no more than a trifling irritance, and Ban’s dark resentment is a warming force until he looks up to see the hammer held towards him. Hilt-first, a weapon returned to its soldier.

 

Folly to even guess at the age of one of the Risen, and Jaren’s face is currently as well-wrapped as his own, but this close he can see the wrinkles at the corner of the man’s eyes. They show deepest in the aftermath of a smile.

 

“You’ll need to show me what to do.”

 

Welcome, Ban had said, not even thinking it an offer for the impossibility it would be accepted.

 

He nearly says as much. Instead, somehow, his fingers close over the hammer’s handle as he catches his breath. Takes in the calm interest with which Jaren assesses the splintered hole. “You never patched a roof?”

 

“Better at finding ‘em as whole as needed.”

 

“You ever mend anything at all?”

 

The gaze shifts to his face. “Not a request that gets made all that regular.”

 

True enough, is the uneasy thought, that none had figured thatching or weaving a skill worth begging after when the iron sat so ready on his hip and the legends spoke only of glory bound to blood spilled. Had Palamon not looked for a mending in its mute appeal, and known the shape it would take? As well ask Loken’s corpse his thoughts on that (may the dark keep him in silence). There is a difference between the excising of a wound, and the healing of it.

 

“Sad state for a man grown,” he mutters, swiping a thumb across to clear the crusting from his eyelashes.

 

“Might agree if I was.” Immediately on the tail of this, Jaren adds, thoughtful, “Had a go at sewing. Here and there. Not good results.”

 

Ban barks a short laugh before he can help it, sending a sharp throbbing up between his eyes. “Well. You’ll want to ask after Hale for that. No help for you here.” Settles his grip on the familiar tool in hand. Clears his throat, eyeing the other man. “That piece of yours looks like handcraft.” Maybe not mended, but made.

 

The gunslinger’s hand brushes at the line of his holster, a gesture grown familiar. “Not wrong. But a long story,” he says. It’s a dismissal, almost; but Jaren looks down and sets his hand aside Ban’s own on the shingle, fingers spread. “A fireside tale.”

 

“Hunh,” Ban says. With Jaren holding the shingle in place, he eases back, reaches to draw the nails free from the worn hide pouch, careful of how likely they are to slip through fingers gone close to blunted and nerveless. He’ll need this done quickly before the bite burns real damage under his skin - and it is an easier task with two. “Not much of a show here today. If you want to learn, it’s a longer road.”

 

It is a single brow that lifts this time, and there is no difficulty in reading the meaning in it.

Comments

[cloudwrack]

Yay! Always excited to see more of this series. ♥ (Also, procrastinating on bigger writing projects via shorter fic is deeply relatable.)

[sideways]

❤!

I remember reading a post that advised always having multiple works on the go so you can procrastinate on one by focusing on another. It really is a legitimate strategy.