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In the earliest morning hours at the Devil’s Den, when the sun itself has barely graced the world with its light, Samuel finds himself leaning against the inner wall of the courtyard. Directly across the way the forge is in use. The den’s blacksmith is still fast asleep. His typically loud snores are drowned out by the sound of metal on metal. Henry was wearing a simple shirt and hose, with an apron to protect his chest and gloves. He looks to be working on a sword of some sort. It has a curved blade, the likes of which Samuel hasn’t seen used before. Not that he has gone around getting into many fights before this year.
The door leading out of the inn’s kitchen swings open. Samuel doesn’t turn to look. He readjusts his crossed arms and continues to watch Henry. The forge almost sings like a bird around him.
Would he have been a blacksmith if he had gotten to know Martin at all?
It’s pointless to think such things. Martin abandoned his mame. He’s better off without him, isn’t he? The growing sensations of unease and doubt coil together within his chest, refusing to be ignored.
“What are you doing?” Samuel fails to keep his eyes from rolling. Of course the noble would come looking for his brother. When does he not? It may be endearing if he wasn’t such a prick about Henry.
“Watching my brother work.” Samuel cranes his neck from one side to the next. It gives a satisfying crack.
“Why?” Samuel squints. When he holds his gaze like so he can almost cut out all the obnoxious yellow in the peripheral of his vision.
Henry brings the hammer down again. Sparks fly. “I wonder if that’s what our father looked like.”
Did Martin roll his shoulders everytime he flipped a sword over like Henry does? Did he whistle as he worked? Do all blacksmiths occasionally reach back, flaming their forge for a moment before returning their attention to the work at hand? During the last hour or so Samuel has been watching he’s noticed many things. Such as how Henry often pauses to look over his shoulder back towards the forge itself. His eyes never linger on the fire, but just to the right of it. Is it Martin he looks for?
What in his brother resembles the man who raised him, and what is from the lord who abandoned him? These are only some of the questions that plague Samuel’s mind. Somehow they are the least distressing. At least amongst his most recent thoughts and fears.
“Oh.” Hans’ voice is quiet, almost soft.
Genuine surprise pulls Samuel’s gaze away from his ponderings. He can’t keep the offense out of his tone. “What did you think I was doing?”
“Spying.” Hans suggests with a shrug.
What an aggravating fool this noble is. Why does Henry put up with him? Perhaps it is due to his own noble father’s command. Samuel bites the inside of his cheek. Had his Zeyde asked him to protect a noble like Hans instead of John, well, Samuel knows he would not have lasted long before trying to scare the man gone.
He returns to leaning against the inn. “I do not like you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” Hans crosses his arms. He goes to lean against the wall, but upon glancing in Samuel’s direction the noble elects to remain standing. He leans his weight onto his right foot. Long fingers tap against his yellow sleeves. “I don’t know what Martin looked like. I may have met him at some point but if that’s the case I don’t recall.”
Samuel scoffs before he can think better of it.
Hans’ pointed face snaps in his direction. The young lord looks him up and down. He can go ahead and glare. That’s all he’ll do. All hot air, and haughtier attitudes.
“But I do know Henry,” Hans tone shifts from nonchalant to something minusculely kinder, “and I’m sure if you ask he’ll show you the way around a forge.” Hans taps his foot. “Lord knows he enjoys showing off.”
“I’m not interested in learning.”
Hans throws up his hands. “Suit yourself then!”
Was that sadness in the noble’s eyes?
Samuel watches him leave. There’s no jaunt in his steps. His shoulders are haunched, and his head hangs as if carrying a weight. Sam’s fingers dig into his sleeves. Had Hans been trying to help them bond? How odd.
Surely not. The noble had made his possessiveness over Henry known. A few months ago he would have thought it strange. Perhaps he still would if not for the fact that Samuel now has some experience with a noble’s possessiveness himself.
Henry holds the sword up and gives it an expansive look over. Finally satisfied the blacksmith trained knight dips it into a bucket of water. Steam rises. It looks scolding. Good thing Henry was standing at an angle and away from the fresh cloud. The new sword is added to a shelf, hanging amongst several others. Were they all made by him or does he simply make weapons as a hobby and allows the local blacksmith to sell them? It’s hard to predict anything with his little brother.
The younger man takes off the gloves, and the apron. As he steps out from under the forge’s roof, out into the bright morning sun, Henry finally notices him. He raises a hand and run over.
“Sam! Good morning!”
“Morning, busy?”
“Just finished.”
Samuel jerks his head back, gesturing towards the front of the building. “Your lord stormed off that way. He was pouting.”
Henry smiles apologetically. “I hope he didn’t say anything too rude.”
“Not this time,” somehow it isn’t a lie.
His brother’s grin grows. “I best go see what’s bothering him then.”
“Good luck,” Sam calls out as Henry runs off. He’s going to need it with a lord like Hans Capon.
He should write to John.