Chapter Text
1. Not a dragon. Probably. More like crazy.
Drunkenly, March leans his head back, blinking slowly in a daze. The mysterious farmer is not here, probably doing whatever crap they do like… huh. What would they be doing?
He blinks away the syrupy state he is in, and struggles to watch the scene before him.
The others interact in a way that can only be done when the fear of vulnerability is stripped away, like a piece of work getting shined and dusted off. Words pass through him, but he catches a “March”, “Farmer”, “haha”.
The inn is as comforting as ever. The warm, hazy lighting makes the place more inviting, as if he too lives here instead of Reina and the rest of her family. It is one of the best things ever about living in Mistria; the closeness of the community. A family that does not need to have a drop of blood to be a family.
A community.
And the newest addition to the community is truly something.
In front of him, Eiland laughs, stealing a bite from Adeline’s chocolate cake that she seems to not mind since the fork is instead, in Eiland’s own grubby hands. The young lord hums around the utensil, contentment bleeding out with how his eyes close in bliss.
Through March’s blurry vision, he sees Celine beside Adeline who is conversing with her, Balor beside himself and Olric on the merchant’s left side. What were we doing again? All I remember was getting wrecked in cards. Obviously, Balor won. He internally groans, I guess I have to get him a sapphire now.
There is chatter around, creating a relaxed atmosphere. If March was more coherent, he would have listened closely to what everyone was talking about. He is not though, so he lets the drowsiness settle in.
“March? March!”
He jolts when Olric leans closer to his face, squishing Balor to the side who tries to give his brother space, “Heyyy! Bro, you listening?”
“Huh?” says March intelligently.
His brother gives the context that he has missed, “We were talking about you!”
“Okay…?” March says, realizing that everyone is looking at him. What do they want him to say? Congratulations? Good job?
Perhaps even if March is drunk—yes, he knows that he can be a little… dopey—he still has to have this sharpness to him that all of the blades he forge have. Good.
“We were talking about how the Farmer seems to be quite talented. You both are excellent craftsmen,” says Balor, doing a grin as he compliments him, or, in other words, butter March up like the excellent merchant Balor is. “Can you provide us more details about the Farmer? We just want to hear more about them.”
The words come out March’s mouth quickly, “I know much about everyone. Why you asking?”
He forgot who was interacting with him originally. His mind goes back to the card games, including the anger, because he had not won a game at all earlier.
Hemlock was good with his chill mood that helped with winning, while Terithia’s was more happy, laughter so infectious that everyone cracked smiles. There was Nora, March recalls. She was scary in the way that a ruler of the family could only be.
Balor did win the most, yet it must be from the stereotype of merchants. Y’know, to be proficient when it comes to the brilliance of coins.
Really, everyone randomly joined in. From Josephine bringing out more dishes, Juniper and Valen bickering in the back, Reina adding comments when she left her station, etc.
It was similar to a constant stream of chatter, cozy and sweet. Like the heat of his blacksmith workshop, like the gulp of Darcy’s hot chocolate.
“So like, why do you want to know about the Farmer?” March asks again.
Naturally, it comes back to them. The most popular topic ever since their arrival. The Farmer is interesting in the way that you could not ever run out of things to say.
Mistria does not even gossip that much—besides Elsie and Juniper—which says a lot about how magnetic they are.
Don’t they know that Fridays are reserved for our community? What time is it even? Is it right to be gossiping about them? he frowns at the many terrible thoughts. Ugh, they’re too distracting.
He comes back when Celine brightens up, similar to one of her flowers blooming and unfurling their petals. Do flowers even do that? March thinks. Unfurl? Obviously they do. Then, with a resounding conclusion, I should leave the plants to Celine.
“Oh!” the florist says, “Well, I talked to the Farmer a few days ago, and it ended up with me asking where they were from. Turns out, they come from the Capital and were part of the adventurer’s guild there.”
That makes sense. Being popular wherever they go and stealing everyone’s attention. March perks up from the new information while the others stay still from already hearing about it.
He feels that wounded pride caused by someone being better than him in every way, the insecurity that stays, but also an emotion he cannot name that is too warm to be negative.
“That’s pretty cool,” then March adds with a slight, soppy, smile, “They’re constantly helping. ‘Makes sense if they were from there, being all heroic and special and stuff.”
Beside him, Balor hums, ignoring how March probably sounds not-the-most-present. “Huh. Considering how good they are at many things, I would’ve heard of them in the Capitol. Strange how I never had any recognition about the Farmer.”
“Ah, me too,” Adeline adds, joining the conversation with a thoughtful air. She moves her hand to her plate, before realizing that Eiland has eaten majority of it. “The Farmer is just so… competent! Father and Mother would have definitely told me in my letters about them. I would expect the Farmer to be famous there.”
They are competent.
March feels this certain emotion bubble up like one of Reina’s soups, welcoming and inviting, but so much. The name flees him, on the tip of his tongue. What is it called?
It clicks when he remembers through his slow mind, an event a while ago. The Farmer randomly came to check up on him before, and then gave a gift that finally landed.
It had become well known that the Farmer gifts a lot. It was their way of showing their affection. Randomly pulling up with your favorite food or something you only mentioned once.
At first, the only enjoyment for March was to see them struggle to figure out what he liked, and sometimes even giving things that were not really his thing.
But when they came to him with a copper ore one day, something entirely foreign struck him.
An ore. Something March sees everyday and uses everyday, but it was different that time. Different because of how the Farmer’s hands were battered, calloused in the way skill seeped into the skin, and how their eyes were so wide and open.
The ore was different because they mined and fought for it.
March knows about love languages. It is a popular topic in the Capitol. He hears from Wheedle’s slimy tactics to buy his stupid stuff. Get this, very popular in the Capital, and for your lover!
Olric’s love language is probably rocks, March thinks, watching Ryis laughing with Hayden. Farmer’s is definitely giving. I need them out of my head.
“Hey, you okay?” Celine whispers across from him, tilting her head.
“I’m fine.”
She finally says something because her kindness overtakes her need to be polite, “Thinking about them?”
A beat and then a pause, but the response comes from his dry mouth, “Yeah,” and because he can blame it on his current state, “Thanks for asking.”
Celine smiles with a knowing nod.
The smell of food is wonderful, the type where it could only come from home. Wooden tables and seats, probably made from Landen’s expert hands.
Hands. Farmer’s hands.
March allows his head to hit the table with a soft thunk. He ignores the stare of Olric.
Farmer’s hands are somehow soft and durable, constantly creating just like his. Constantly working. Constantly fighting.
March thinks he now knows why people like getting gifts.
It was the way he wondered if the Farmer thought of him on that day. Down in the mines, fighting with confidence, mining with dripping sweat on their bodies.
And when they placed the ore into his hands, instead of March’s foolish tongue saying, “oh wow, this is the first time you actually gave a good gift, were you taking notes?” he instead felt the emotion he can finally name in this inn. The rush just from one interaction, the feeling of knowing someone was thinking of him, the admiration he will deny he feels exactly tomorrow.
He can name it right now.
Awe.
Celine says, pondering for a few moments. “It never really occurred to me about these things. It’s good that we can all come here and chat, right? I mean… it always struck me odd how they knew so much about flora.”
Wait, it wasn’t just me? How did the Farmer know so much about forging anyway?
Everyone blinks, all about to say something in agreement, scrambling upward with wild hand motions about to tell a story, when someone gets to it first.
“Oh, don’t get me started!” March laughs loudly, shaking his head while Olric nods wildly in agreement because… y’know, sibling communication. Ugh, does the Farmer even have siblings? “They’re so weird. It’s great!”
Balor smiles in amusement, “Oh yes, we know it’s great, but how about we go back to how you were about to say something? Don’t get you started on what?”
March bluntly announces, “They’re crazy.”
Balor shakes with laughter.
Eiland, who was finishing the last bite of cake, makes a confused sound around his fork, “Huh? Crazy wouldn’t be the first words I would describe the Farmer.”
March’s mind wanders back to them. On their first arrival when seeing them was a whole new thing—like learning a new skill, or figuring out a new technique—it was strange. They were so—
Adeline lists off, “Competent, enigmatic, mysterious, kinda strange—“
Yeah. That.
“—Attractive, good-looking, delectable,” Balor finishes with a serious air.
What.
“What.” His mind stutters, which shouldn’t be possible, only his breath. Actually, not his mind, his whole body does. “Delectable?” he finds himself gaping. His breath abandons him, as if he is getting one of Olric’s harsh hugs that leave him wheezing.
“I agree with all of those,” Celine shyly says. “Those are good adjectives.” She giggles, turning slightly pink.
“Really? I would add strong,” Eiland suggests, pushing his empty plate and stealing… his?
“Hey! You’re not the only one in the sweets club!” as March reluctantly gives it away with a slight frown and places it into Eiland’s hands without a thought.
The young lord hums, a mischievous smile adorning his face. His pink hair cascades down in fluffy wisps, and as he moves his body happily, he says, “Aha! Stealing food is easy when you know when people are at their weakest.”
How is my state weak? Am I weak? March whines. No I didn’t. “That sounds like what the Farmer would say!”
Ugh, I miss the Farmer.
“Me too, bud,” Olric says, patting him on the shoulder with a solemn air. Someone laughs. Celine? Adeline? Balor? Eiland? “Me too.”
March flushes.
“Hey! You’re as red as your hair.”
“Oh my gosh Olric!” he groans.
“No but you’re right,” Adeline slowly nods.
I am?
About what?
“Yeah!” she claps her hands together, as if an idea would be made between her hands. Moving to the side, she pulls out a notepad and a pencil—which is, come on Adeline, really?—and starts jotting down swirls of ink. “We can always learn and dive deeper into topics. The Farmer for example.”
“We are not psycho-analyzing them,” Eiland deadpans. “And work? When it’s Friday and the weekend is so close I can almost taste it? Plus, there are desserts I will be consuming soon, I am not doing work!”
She frowns. “It’s more dissecting. Psycho-analyzing is not the term.”
Celine makes a face. “That is more Valen, Adeline.”
Adeline pouts. “So are you guys with me or not? We should theorize who the Farmer is!”
Everyone pauses. But when it is the one of the co-leaders of Mistria who is always overworking, overthinking, and overwhelmed, of course you listen to her. It is Adeline after all. It is community. Mistria.
And when the door finally opens with the steady footsteps of the Farmer, assured and always ready, March feels that coziness settle in. They are otherworldly, in a way.
They chat with the kids at the door, laughing with ease, yet with the softness of someone who has gentleness to share. Navigating the inn with expertise, making everyone smile because out of all their talents, their charisma is probably the skill they are most proficient in.
“Hey guys,” they say when they reach their table. Everyone responds with an excited greeting, because who wouldn’t be excited to see them?
March says a tad soft, “We are almost done, you should’ve came earlier.”
“Ah, sorry, I got stuck trying to push through a floor in the mines. The mobs were destroying me.” They snicker. A pretty one. “I hate dodging, I get too excited to start slicing them,” they frown where a smile is more welcomed on their face. In March’s opinion. “Attack patterns. I really need to actually focus on them instead of getting too hyped.”
So when they go on a full rant, explaining their adventures, and laughing about their mishaps, the emotion comes full force again.
Awe.
•
In the fields of Mistria, things go around quickly.
Yeah, the Farmer somehow grew hundreds of crops to last us through many eras of famine.
Yeah, the Farmer is somehow so good at fighting, they are probably the best fighter in all of Aldaria.
Yeah, the Farmer somehow became so rich that they practically step with the sound of tesserae jingling.
Yeah, the Farmer is a cook, fighter, miner, blacksmith, carpenter, fisher, bug catcher, and somehow, so humble.
Yeah, they caught a legendary fish. (That one caused Terithia to laugh such a bellow three weeks ago, it made the birds fly away).
See, the farmer is strange. Though…
“Is this really necessary? Can’t we just ask them?”
It is the next day. The Saturday Market is always something to look forward to. The thing is, instead of browsing through the vendors and using his well earned money, March is standing beside Adeline near the fountain.
Since it has been a wonderful spring, the breeze moves past them. It tickles his hair—he needs another dye, his roots are showing—like a welcomed embrace, causing Adeline to sigh in contentment at the side.
Most would rather live in the Capital where it is often busy, full of people who are far too high in status for March to comprehend, and more exciting than their place would ever be. Yet March likes the simpleness of Mistria. It is beautiful. Peaceful.
This is something many people would not understand. The daily routines and the ‘boringness’ of this place. But the people here are already enough entertainment and joy.
Especially after the Farmer joined.
The Farmer whizzes around, buying so many things it makes March feel like they are nobility—wait, they could be nobility, Celine’s theory anyway—instead of the two pink haired siblings. They grin, spending without a thought that it makes him truly wonder if the rumor that they have at least five hundred thousand tesserae in their possession is true.
“I would, but they hardly tell anything about themself,” Adeline says, making March recall what he said earlier. “For always wanting to know our tastes and personal information, they seem to never open up.”
I never really thought about that before, he unfolds his arms from where they were crossed. March looks down the steps where the Farmer is chatting with the kids, giving gifts that must have taken a while to find.
They’re so talented, it almost seems unreal. A hero in a fairytale, such a skilled person you would only find in legends or from the history books that Eiland mentions. Unreal.
March replies, “What do you want to know about?”
Adeline scribbles on a notepad. “Just tell me some background, thoughts about them, info. What you like about them, something like that.”
His heart lurches, and with his cheeks heating up, he yelps, “Why would I talk about them?!”
“You just asked what do I want to know!”
“I-I! I don’t like this topic!”
“We have been talking about them this whole time. Oh come on March! Just say whatever! They are the topic.” Adeline huffs, giving him a look. “I already talked with Eiland, you are next.”
“Wait, you’re asking the whole town?” he blurts.
“Obviously. When getting information, you hear from other people. Everyone has different thoughts and experiences with them.”
“You are going to get a lot of common information, Adeline,” he deadpans. “They are the Farmer.”
She laughs. “Tell me more about them. You probably have the most different viewpoint about them. You can be the outlier or the anomaly.”
He ends up doing it.
He first says how they are a lot. A lot of snark, a lot of bark, a lot of sarcasm that it practically bleeds into their words. Never afraid to crack a joke. He admits that they can be funny, humorous in the way that makes everyone laugh.
Yet there is another side to them, not just confidence and arrogance. They can be soft, shy, and sweet. Genuine. You will never need to second guess yourself around their company, because they hold no judgement.
Instead of putting all those organized thoughts into words, he instead says, “They are fine. Nice sometimes. And funny, I guess.”
“You seem to be saying the same things as Eiland. Do you have any other thoughts?” asks Adeline, peering into his eyes as he tries to divert his.
“Well…”
There is this thing when you put effort into something. For March, it was forging. Blacksmithing was his thing; his mother’s thing.
Ever since his mother died, he had went into blacksmithing with great passion, wanting to be connected to her in the way absence could never let you. She was gone, his dad was gone, his brother and him were left behind, and near the end, only March’s pride was left.
Son of Jade and Olin.
To see the Farmer learn blacksmithing, to see them literally do anything like they were some genius prodigy, to know that he would not be as good as them, he realized how little he was.
He can admit it now.
He realized how insecure he was, letting their achievements crack his pride like some armor that keeps getting hit.
The thing was, the Farmer was so humble and nice. That was the worst part.
“Inspiring,” he settles on the word.
Adeline hums. “Mind sharing?”
“They’re crazy. I just need to catch up to them.”
She ends up laughing.
It was also a lesson to him, that while he did dislike them at first, it did not change how awing and inspiring they were. He does like competition, so maybe the Farmer moving to Mistria is not a bad thing after all.
I am not saying that to their face.
“Hey, Adeline, March!”
They turn to the Farmer, earning a small smile from them while they run up the steps. A sword in a scabbard, a bunch of items getting huddled in their arms, and the gentle wind sweeping around them. They stop, observing him and Adeline closely.
“What you guys doing?”
March struggles to find the words, stuttering, “Nothing.”
They give him a confused look. “Okay…? Anyway, I hit the mines. Here March, for you.”
They place a stack of bars into his hand, the color of a light pink, like the shade of cherry blossoms, or the color of blush when someone gets embarrassed. Mistril.
He feels out of breath. ”Did you reach level 80?”
”Yes, I did it last night. I almost passed out from how late it was, haha.” Not funny.
But. Wow.
He stares at it in shock, before mumbling, “Thanks, Farmer. I can definitely make something good out of this!”
“Aw, glad you liked it. I was thinking about you down there. I was so motivated to get to level 80 because of you, March.”
Stop it.
Thankfully, their attention moves to the lady of Mistria. “Here, Adeline.”
Adeline blushes. “Ah! Lemon pie is my favorite! Thank you, Farmer. I’ll make sure to eat it.”
After a few minutes of chatting, the Farmer leaves, which in turn, leaves Adeline and him in silence.
“Are we really—” Adeline swallows, horror seeping into her voice, “Are we that easy?”
“I guess our affections are easily bought.”
She inhales a scared breath.
•
”Okay, so how about this? The Farmer is a long lost royal on the run.”
“Really? How about my theory that they were a noble child that was disowned.”
“Ours are basically the same thing! Mine’s just better.”
Theories are not really March’s thing. He is more hammering with discipline, more engravings on his works, more grounded to reality than off daydreaming. But with the Farmer who is an endless source of creativity, he can understand Eiland’s crazy theories.
“I doubt they are a long lost royal, at least being a noble child is still realistic,” Celine says with a frown.
“But where is the fun in that? I could see them being a long lost royal! Well… hm,” and then Eiland goes off into thought, before saying, “How about dragon?”
They are back in the inn, only difference is that not everyone is here. It is the same group from yesterday—minus Olric who has to work—and Josephine, who seems to be intrigued by the nonsense they are saying because she smiles in amusement every time March glances at her.
Did I really skip work for this? he thinks, sipping his soup, disgruntled at the thought. Just to guess what the Farmer’s mysterious past is?
Balor says tentatively, “How about… just being an adventurer?”
“An adventurer who can catch legendary fish and bugs? Who can mine artifacts that hold so much historical value that—“ Eiland is out of breath, heaving air like it is the only thing that can sustain him, “—I can’t believe that! Those artifacts gave information about the old eras, such priceless things! They are not just an adventurer! They are more like the Dragonguard. Unfathomable power and skill!”
“Okay historian,” Celine laughs, sipping on tea. “But I disagree about the whole dragon thing.”
Eiland shrugs. “I guess people can disagree on what is the truth.”
“And the Farmer being a dragon is the truth?” Celine rolls her eyes fondly.
“You have been reading too many fantasy books lately.” Adeline looks at Eiland, disappointed. Her hands are full of pages, scribbled theories, and no sight of dragon anywhere. “Eiland, I think you are going on the side of too much conspiracy.”
A noise stops whatever Eiland was going to say, because Balor grins, leaning in towards the table. With a flourish, the merchant brings out a gem which is not that surprising. He does like his gems. What is surprising is what is in his fingers.
As a blacksmith, March recognizes rare materials from deep in the earth, mined by not normal skill, but instead, lots of abnormal luck. You are lucky if you get a bunch of gems. Which would be true unless you are as crazy as the Farmer. They get too many gems.
March has the evidence.
They get them in the chest-fulls.
He saw.
Do they find these things by luck? By skill? Or by pure determination because they are so odd?
The gem that lays on the table is another sign of how odd the Farmer is.
Oh, help me. March feels the shock and the pulse of his heart working overtime. That is!
The blue haired merchant clears his throat, “A Perfect Diamond. From who you can probably guess is from.”
“That should be in a museum!” Eiland says.
“Nope,” Balor replies all cheery. “That should be in my hands because the Farmer is so sweet and generous, they gave it to yours truly instead. Sorry Eiland. Considering who they are, they’ll probably find a new one soon.”
The young lord sputters.
Olric would freak if he saw that. March feels a headache coming. The diamond glistens, perfect formation and proportions. Zero blemishes, it is perfectly clear. Flawless clarity, something almost unrealistic from how beautiful the diamond is. Which makes sense, since it is literally a Perfect Diamond.
Insane. They are insane. I mean, when they caught that legendary fish three weeks back, it was crazy. But this is something around my realm of expertise. This means, the Farmer could mine a Perfect Ore.
He swallows. And they just unlocked mistril from breaching floor 80. He feels lightheaded. A Perfect Mistril ore…
He isn’t even as obsessed about gems as much as Balor or Olric. Yet even he knows how great Perfect Gems are. How insanely lucky or skilled you have to be to have one.
Who the hell are you?
”It’s a good diamond,” March mumbles when he sees Balor appreciating its shine under the inn lights.
Balor perks up, admiring it once he looks down again, before saying, “Which brings me to my next point. I agree, actually. Eiland is right—“
“—Exactly, dragon.”
”Uh, no. I mean, he is right. In a different way. They just can’t be a normal adventurer now that I think about it.”
Celine takes another gulp of her tea. “Agreed. But no dragon theories, even if we think they are not a normal adventurer.”
“Okay, but if not a dragon, how about they know of a dragon?” Eiland suggests. “Dragons had the Dragonguard, and I’m not just saying this as to sound weird! This is actually from my knowledge as a historian, in the realm of possibility. Guys, I admire dragons a lot, I promise.”
Adeline huffs, pushing her plate to her brother. “Eiland, just eat your cake.”