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Chapter Text

Infernal iron is anything but solid.

Capricious. Picky. Hardly ever accessible, be it through trade or scouting, and the easiest to lose again once obtained. It favours temperatures only the most hellbent of smiths can bear. Under the wrong tool,  in the hands of a lesser artisan, it breaks as easily as straw  – that, in and of itself, is not a problem. But it also breaks under the right one, too, if the fancy strikes. There is a demonic streak to the way it sharpens and hones itself, almost without the outside force needed.

So fluid and unreliable. Destructive and unbalanced.

Maybe that’s why Dammon likes working with it so much. He’s solid enough for both of them.

His feet never leave the ground – and that’s a good thing: those who fly often forget how important the substance of soil is, the foundation and stability of cobblestone and well-treaded tracks. To say a tiefling is naturally inclined to work with fire would be an overstatement, of course. But his heart is a smelting furnace, pumping iron through his veins slowly and steadily, hot but never raging. It is what a blacksmith needs, only a balanced mind and a steady arm, and constant warmth to soften the edge of metal.

Cinders and forge. There is nothing more grounded.

It may be the only reason why he survived Hell. His feet were too solid to leave the ground even when it took flight itself and the entirety of Elturel collapsed into the mouth of Avernus.

*

A good smith knows his copper, his former master used to say. As his first years as an apprentice passed, Dammon never stopped being baffled by the saying. Copper is soft. Easy to work with hot or cold, its malleability makes it almost akin to clay. Unlike iron, unlike alloys and blends of steel, it works along the hammer, adjusting to any shape, eager to please its smith. But it pleases not: you could never forge a good sword out of it, or a shield, let alone a mere dagger. No matter the reinforcement, the temperature, the time spent on drawing or upsetting the material – copper weapons will break in a matter of days. Kitchen utensils. Pots. That’s what it’s good for.

Dammon was anything but soft and malleable. Cinders and forge can’t make up for the lack of flexibility.

It wasn’t until years later that he found what the saying meant on his own.

He could never remember the fall – or rather, he could never remember it for more than a split second. Sometimes, the brain just… shuts. Shields us from what hurts. The flashes and glimpses, broken voices screaming, crunch and crack of stone falling apart – then nothing. That’s all he could remember.

That and copper.

*

Everything tasted like iron: food, drink… air.

Air. There was no air in Avernus, or at least it felt like it. Only heat and aridity on the tongue, molten tin-like flakes coating the palate. He remembers how it hurt to breathe at first, how dry his lips felt almost immediately. How the doors, windows, anything that wasn’t blocked or broken started to open, hinges begging for oil; how people slowly filled the street where his smithy was – where it used to be – heading to the gates, coughing, retching, covering their mouths and faces as best they could. And Dammon followed, his broken forge left behind, with crumbles of coal and cinders smouldering faintly. But, as it turned out, there was nowhere to go.

The gates were hanging open, the wings hitting against the walls time and time again hanging loose over what used to be the road to the tollgate.

Now, there was nothing there. The city floated in the air, red skies stretching over and around, a strange black sun hanging heavily above. Not many dared to look at what was below. He did.

Infernal iron is anything but solid. But, at the time, it was enough.

Huge spikes digging deep into the foundations, chains reinforced tenfold. They held Elturel in place, firmly claiming it as Hell’s own. What acted out on the surface, capricious and picky, here served its purpose with zeal. Dammon could almost hear demonic cackling in the air with every resonant clank of iron.

It was blood-curdling. But he couldn’t stop looking at the chains.

The world may have tasted like iron, but it smelled positively infernal.

*

The name Zariel also tasted like iron.

To a common city dweller, the Blood War was an empty word. How… surprised they all were when they found that they were all conscripted. There were talks of pacts, vampires, payments – but, all in all, gossip mattered little when running and hiding became the latest fashion.

What mattered was that in the name of Zariel, whoever they were, Elturel went to Hell.

And then Hell went to Elturel.

The siege over the suspended city began quickly; too quickly for what few Hellriders they had left within the walls to even find their weapons, let alone draw them. It was a pity, Dammon would think, even though such thoughts appeared inappropriate. Those were fine blades. He forged most of them himself.

There was plenty of misery to go around, plenty of backs breaking like fatigued steel; in new Elturel there wasn’t much to do for a paperboy, a potter, a poet. But there was plenty that could be done to them. After what seemed like years but was merely hours, Dammon decided it was best to start forgetting faces. For sanity, if such a thing even existed among fumes of sulphur.

Devils, demons – whoever currently had the upper hand in the city or in the war, it didn’t matter. Because, as is the case with places under occupation, turmoils would quiet down as quickly as they started and a new reality, forced upon the survivors, became the norm.

After a blink of an eye, a couple of days, an eternity under the black sun, there was work in the city again. Maybe not for a poet or a potter, or a paperboy, but they all soon found their uses. The Blood War required more than soldiers. Some faces reappeared and those who didn’t were spared useless pity.

Feet on the ground. If you can’t fight, adapt. And even though malleability lay not in his nature, Dammon knew that only two types of people survive Hell: those who bend and adjust, eager to please, and those who remain unchanged, solid and stable. Not many forces in the world and beyond may reshape a furnace – and what stays the same, quickly blends into the background. Just like the fiendish voices, blending with the dry cracks and crunches of parched soil; his own lips, almost hurting at times, responding.

His voice blending with the beating of his own heart.

His feet were firmly planted on the ground – and he knew there was no choice. He was fire and forge, with a furnace instead of a heart, and the new reality welcomed him more warmly than some of the others, even if the difference was less than significant. To say a tiefling is naturally attuned to infernal planes would be an overstatement, of course.

There was work in the city again.

And work he would. He would stay by the forge when people ran and hid among the ruins at the time of curfew. He would sweat and burn his fingers, and hit the candent steel with his hammer, ears full of hellish laughter or earthly sobs. But he would also close the door to his smithy as the hours grew dangerous, then lock it to conceal shivering bodies and teary eyes within its crumbling walls. He would shrug at growled questions and weapons shoved right under his nose. He couldn’t bring himself to fear the swords of Avernus’ natives. By that time, he’d already forged some of them himself.

Unchanged and stable, his veins full of iron, he would work. He might have hated it. But he also loved it.

He could work with infernal iron.

*

He learned plenty during his time in Avernus. More than he would have ever expected.

As the time went by and his work remained steady, opportunities arose. Travels beyond the devastated walls of the city, beyond the chains and infernal hooks. Demonic temptations, if the name fit. It was wrong, he knew that. Not in the least patriotic.

But the fiendish forges were things of beauty.

The technology was… foreign, at first, and the instructors less than patient, but if you have a smelting furnace for a heart, the forge will speak to you sooner or later. Infernal mechanisms were as fascinating as they were unsettling, the possibilities they opened – endless. There was more to learn than just blacksmithing. There was mechanics. Tinwork. Even clockwork, as ridiculous as he found it at first. All techniques reinforced by powers unattainable to him up to that point, all tools flavoured by iron and smelling like sulphur. Fiendish craftsmanship offered solutions no one would have ever taught him, mysterious at first glance, but becoming so strangely familiar, so right the more he studied and practised. It was worth it, he found himself thinking, even if the material could be difficult to work with more often than not. Infernal alloys proved defiant, resenting the hands that worked them, breaking even under measured strikes, thinning out too quickly. Fighting every step of the way, revelling in its instability. But each time he was solid enough for both of them.

Every now and then he would think of copper. Cauldrons and kettles scattered around the ruins of the city, beaten down, bent out of shape in their malleability. Coins glittering in the cracks in the pavement, softened in the heat, no hands reaching for them as money stopped being important. He was a good smith, after all – and a good smith knows his copper. But he didn’t know what that meant, not yet, and his thoughts would quickly turn back to the furnace.

*

He couldn’t believe his luck when the forces unknown brought the city back.

He remembered the ascension well. It was like falling again – except it wasn’t; one by one, the iron chains broke with a loud clang that didn’t stop echoing in his ears until hours later, the ground started shaking and his feet dug into the cobblestone until they almost merged with it. The odd black sun shone bright, too bright to bear, then it shone no more. And just like that, Avernus spat them out. Elturel came back where it belonged.

Not a moment too soon.

Sometimes, the brain just… shuts. Shields us from what hurts. But he remembers the moment he broke – and when he mended the break.

Talks of Dis, the Iron City, would reach his ears every now and then. The capital of its plane, it served less as a settlement and more like a giant forge in more ways than one. With flaming hot iron being worked day and night, there were creations of wonder wrought on millions of anvils, only to be smelted and reforged again, the chase after perfection never ceasing. If he found himself a patron – a master – his travels could take him further than to a lesser demonic smithy.

To say a tiefling is naturally prone to treat an infernal as kin would be an overstatement, of course. It felt wrong to be appreciated by the hellish spawns, to hear praise dressed in vulgarity and coated with scorn; but he was talented and he was learning quickly. And it was easy. It was so easy to forget all about Elturel and what it used to be when he stood elbows deep in the belly of a metal beast, punching through its innards to fix a single plate, or when he almost got lost in a foundry like no other he has ever seen before, too smitten to pay attention to where his heart would take him. With soot and sweat over his forehead, he could almost forget that beyond the blackened walls there was no blue sky.

Infernal iron was addictive in its defiance.

It could be a good thing, he thought. Two kinds of people survive Hell. He could easily move on. He would still be stable. Nobody notices that which never changes. A furnace can withstand much: enough fuel to burn steadily, enough iron to mould as the fancy strikes. Feet on the ground, unchanging even if the environment would be different.

Even if there would be no one in the floating city to lock the smithy’s door and conceal the shivering bodies and teary eyes as the curfew approached.

He would think all those things – but then other thoughts would appear. A smith may desire the opulence of eternal fire, he may yearn for anvils of unknown magic, working day and night on what was unthinkable a tenday before. He may want those things, even forget himself when presented with them within arm’s reach. But a blacksmith’s blood, while running hot, never raging. Even if he longs for what’s mysterious and yet so right, he doesn’t need it.

Only a balanced mind and a steady arm.

And constant warmth to soften the edge of metal.

Yes, he was learning quickly. But it was almost a quarter to too late when he learnt that easy isn’t always right; that forgetting does not equal surviving; and that you cannot remain unchanged when the world itself changes around you. Whether the transformation is right or wrong, it is up to you.

And then, finally, he got to know his copper.

There was work in the city. So work he did: he bent and cut, he smelt and welded. All kinds of weapons, mechanisms, parts. Intricacy and attention to detail, so pleasant to the eye, be it of a human or demonic kind.

He worked diligently under the infernal tutelage, listening to the talks of Dis, nodding along the infernal temptation. He worked, steady and solid, forging instruments of destruction.

Every single one made with infernal iron on the outside, capricious but destructive.

Every single one made with a copper heart.

It was then that he understood his former master’s words. Copper works along the hammer. You can conceal it perfectly as it adjusts to any shape, eager to please its smith. And it will never, ever make for a good sword or a shield, let alone a mere dagger. Infernal iron or not, copper weapons will break in a matter of days.

Kitchen utensils. Pots. He made them by hundreds, all dressed as deadly weapons, then handed them over to those who fed on war and blood. He has never felt more proud of himself. Never felt more scared.

Defiance by copper. Who would have thought?

*

Avernus lost its grip on the city, but left deep claw marks as a memento.

The hunger for rebuilding was matched only by a different kind of yearning: the people wanted justice. And justice turned out to be revenge dressed in a pristine cloak. Running and hiding no longer in fashion, gossip started to bloom again, the topic unchanging.

It became apparent very quickly that not every citizen was welcome to help build the community anew. To say a tiefling is an alien, malevolent force, plotting against the true residents, would be…

… a very easy thing to do, to some. Of course.

Dammon knew there were two kinds of people who survived Hell. But to survive Elturel, it turned out, one had a single option. Leave. His heart was a smelting furnace, but tools can break with time – for fire and forge may be defiant in the hands of the one who respects them little. It wasn’t patriotic in the slightest – but when the forges of Avernus burnt bright, he learnt he might not be much of a patriot.

He could feel iron in his veins, steady and slow, even as a child’s hand cast a rock right at his head.

If you can’t fight, adapt.

Zevlor took him in, a Hellrider cast out, with weariness reflected in his eyes. The group he gathered was meagre in size, worn out even before departure. Men and women, and children – all leaving behind their lives together. The city they never abandoned, even as the skies turned red, was now abandoning them. They could use a smith, Zevlor said to him, if only to take out rotten teeth while they travel. So he abandoned most of his equipment, the smithy which held together on scraps of metal and a prayer, and joined the rest of the exiled on their journey. They all packed light and took care not to look behind them.

Sometimes it’s alright, he thought to himself days later, as he squinted in the familiar sunlight and the world started to smell of grass, herbs, and people. Sometimes it’s alright to let your feet leave the ground.

He kept thinking that, repeating the words in his head, but they never rang true. Infernal iron is addictive in its defiance. Cinders and forge, grounded as they are, need ignition, steadiness following the initial spark.

Among the trees, as the city slowly disappeared from eye view, he realised he missed the air not fit for breathing.

*

His makeshift smithy in the druids’ grove is anything but solid.

A couple of logs pretending desperately to be a proper forge and failing. A pair of old bellows, torn and mended at least a dozen times, smelling faintly of belladonna. A wooden plank disguising itself as a drawplate. Something that could be an auger bit – if it wasn’t a bunch of springs from an old music box tied to a leather strap.

Fortunately, Dammon is solid enough for all of them. And if he isn’t, it doesn’t matter anyway.

They aren’t supposed to stay here long, Zevlor says. Baldur’s Gate is the end goal, Zevlor claims. They will leave as soon as they can, Zevlor promises. And yet they remain here, among the pine trees and creeping ivy wrapped around unfamiliar statues, as the environment grows progressively more hostile.

There are matters he should be worried about. Goblins swarming in the highroad, druids eyeing him and the other fugitives with less affability by the hour, Zevlor losing it with every passing day. He should be worried, but he isn’t – he isn’t for sure, he is too busy tweaking and adjusting, and making something out of nothing as the fire burns anew. Feet on the ground, cinders and forge. If you stay the same, your convictions may remain the same as well. You might remember, and keep on remembering, that you don’t need that which you so hopelessly yearn for.

And then he smells it.

“That is one daydreaming blacksmith. You here, mate? A copper for your thoughts?”

Infernal iron. A faint whiff of sulphur. All that was meant to be forgotten – for sanity, if such a thing even existed among familiar-turned-unfamiliar.

The heat of Avernus lashes him across the face.

As the fiery figure approaches – big, intimidating, glorious – he can sense another furnace, maybe less natural than his very own, but pumping iron through the veins nonetheless. The woman comes closer, her heart a broken mechanism, and he has to tilt his head up to even see her face.

Infernal iron is anything but solid. But he is an unusual smith and can bear its caprice.

He knows his copper.

Chapter Text

Infernal mechanics. A craft of whimsy.

The grove is all muted browns and greens, with splotches of miserable grey provided by foreign, unfamiliar, disapproving statues. The wind is cool and refreshing, was it not for the muted chants from the druidic circle and the thin-veiled threats it brings. Everything is in between. Not quite bad, but not yet good.

In this environment, a painting of would-be’s and have-been’s, the woman (“It’s Karlach, by the way. So you can call me… well, Karlach.”) sticks out like a sore thumb. Or better yet, Dammon corrects himself: like a flare of fire from an overheated blade. Last spark among cinders.

Towering over him, over everyone, she stands confidently, hands on hips; white teeth shown between reddened lips, her smile open. Everything about her screams warrior, from one broken horn like a keepsake of survival and the strength of powerful shoulders barely concealed by boiled leathers, to a maul – leaden grip, wire reinforced with silver, well-profiled pommel, his eye of an artisan tells him – hanging casually over her arm.

A picture of fortitude. Health and vitality. And, apparently, an infernal engine for a heart.

He remembers Avernus. He remembers places beyond the ruins of Elturel. He remembers infernal iron and its creations all too well; but what he remembers best is that everything forged in the devil’s smithy has a mind of its own.

It’s a living matter, biting and full of spite. Even more so here than down there.

Just like everything coming from Hell, Dammon thinks. The atmosphere on the surface is… incorrect, the air too diluted, the wind too cold. Engines of fiendish origin tend to break almost immediately, not being all too durable to begin with. Infernal mechanics is a craft of whimsy. Unstable, imbalanced, half past combustion – and completely, utterly fascinating.

The war machines feed on souls. This one, apparently, was installed in a way to exist alongside one – as unnerving as such close proximity may be. But something clearly isn’t right – Karlach’s armour does not conceal the feverish hue.

No living being should burn so bright.

Curiosity takes over. He listens intently, cheek as close to the candent chest as possible, his eyes already watery as the white heat of warmed-up metal bathes his face. There’s a disturbance in the hum of the machinery, a click too late, a tick too soon. But what his ear doesn’t tell him, his nose screams out immediately. Nothing that functions properly smells of burnt hair and unburnt fuel. A lot of things can go wrong with infernal machinery. And they all did, it seems.

No heartbeat. Just pistons and valves. The quiet tragedy does not escape his notice: but he is a smith and a call of iron is too strong to consider anything else at the moment.

He’s deep in thoughts, images of cylinders and lifters and chambers flying in front of his eyes at an immeasurable speed, as the engine bites at him, iron heart sending sparks right at his face. He recoils quickly: cool air soothes his reddened cheek. Karlach’s apology is sincere and lined with a bit of panic, but he waves his hand dismissively. That’s infernal iron for you. Full of spite.

Infernal iron. That’s what she needs. He explains it to her, speaks of how rare the material is, how difficult it is to work with once found. Infernal mechanics, after all, is a craft of whimsy.

She listens – and as she does her face changes.

In the painting of would-be’s and have-been’s, with the muted background of miserable grey, her emotions shine like a beacon. He keeps on speaking for things must be said, but her face almost makes him stop. And the eyes, speckled with copper. They focus on him intently, barely blinking. Sad. Disappointed.

Last spark among cinders indeed.

It’s all so… sincere. Almost painful to look at.

“I’m sorry,” he says despite himself. He isn’t sure what is apologising for.

“You didn’t do this to me, so don’t be sorry. There are others who should be. Who will be.”

She shakes her head with conviction, eyebrows knit and jaw tight for a second – and he believes her words; there is fierceness to her the likes of which he only saw once. But then, suddenly she flashes him a grin, the broadest and brightest he’s ever been treated to and her eyes light up.

“And you… be whimsical instead, mate. I’m counting on you.”

He looks up at her. Speckles of copper shimmer warmly; the cold of the wind soothes his face and he is more aware of it than he was a moment ago.

Once again, he believes her words.

“I will try my best,” he nods slowly; then again, with confidence. “Just find the iron and, well, we’ll see if I’m worth my salt.”

A promise is too big of a word. But he is a smith and the iron calls to him. His mind flares up, and the furnace inside him responds.

She reaches out to shake his hand and he offers it without a moment of hesitation until realisation dawns on them almost at the same time. Apologetic half-smiles, awkward shoulder rolls, a symphony of what could be words but ends up as coughs and nervous humming. In the end, they’re both embarrassed but, thankfully, no flesh gets scorched that day.

The grove turns back into the familiar browns and greens as she leaves, tall and powerful, whistling, waving to the rest of her party of adventurers. Emanating hope he somehow gave her.

He lives in a world of tragedies, even partaking in some himself; the corruption of Avernus has a familiar taste and those tainted by it surround him. One more ache and woe added to the mixture doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

But he follows her with his eyes, a confident silhouette, fortitude incarnate. Unstable, imbalanced. Half past combustion, a quarter to disaster.

And, Dammon is not above admitting it, completely, utterly fascinating.

*

He knows what it takes to build a heart.

He remembers days spent in the guts of the Tormentor; with a harpoon launcher in his hands; at the helm of a harvester, never asking what it was that it harvested. Grease soaked through his reinforced gloves, with sweat running down his back he would fight the crankshaft valiantly or punch the living Hells out of an oil pan, or reforge the exhaust valves for the six hundred sixty-sixth time that day, almost out of his wits but happy, always happy. Terrified, too. But, first and foremost, happy. No matter. The point is…

The point is he knows what it takes to build a heart. And the question? The question is what it takes to mend a heart that is broken.

Still in the grove, at his makeshift forge, he sketches out an outline of an infernal engine, all parts labelled, with annotations on the side.

There are other things that need to be done, what with druids wanting them out of the grove and goblins wanting them out even more. Being a part of a community, especially one on the run, compels to certain responsibilities. Nevertheless, he sketches and plans.

There are other things he finds easy to remember. Gentle elevation of a saddle plate. The diameter of firetubes. The most optimal thickness of a firebox lining.

There are other things, too; and, as the time passes and he moves on from one piece of paper to another, he remembers them better and better. Hair, ruffled at the top and longer at the back. Freckles upon a tip-tilted nose, pale scars crisscrossing through them like a twisted game of noughts and crosses. One good horn, unbroken but chipped. And the eyes, the eyes the eyes, full of speckles of copper.

Yes, there are other things that need to be done, but he can’t spare them a thought. Mending a heart is a serious matter.

Once he’s done, he feels happy. Terrified, too, in a way. But, first and foremost, happy.

He looks at the paper and Karlach’s face looks back at him.

*

“Damn, I wish I could dance.”

It is evening and the moon burns exceptionally bright, giving the trees and bushes long, shadowy siblings that reach the heart of the adventurers’ camp. It is evening but sleep is a distant memory, a guest cast away for the time being. It is evening, but celebration and merriment give it another name – it is time, simply time, something nobody was sure they had not too long ago. It is evening, meat is roasting over the campfire, wine and ale join in a never-ending river from the bottle to the throat.

It is evening, he is alive and Karlach is here, too. Sitting by the fire, cleaning her nails with a dagger (he cannot help but wince at the misuse of a good blade), smiling. Smiling at him. Burning less bright than before, but they both know it’s a very good thing.

Her heart was mended.

(“How do you do those things, exactly?” she asked him after the isolating component joined the machinery inside her with a satisfying click, admiration in her voice and in the eyes, the eyes, the eyes. So he answered; discussed the applicability of firm and loose grip; the importance of consistent strokes; how much depends on the power of the blacksmith’s tool. He stopped to think only when her smile grew wider and wider until the façade cracked and she burst into laughter, loud and sincere, one-third tempestuous and two-thirds utterly delightful. The world around was dimmed, coated with dread and lined with surrender, but right there, in the fire of his almost-furnace matched by the flames around her almost-heart, it didn’t matter anymore. He couldn’t even bother to feel embarrassed.)

And she saved them. Well, not alone perhaps, what with her companions, peripheral as they were in this world of muted browns and greens, with a flare of fire as the focal point. She saved them all the same. And it was nothing short of glorious.

(He knows because he was there, he was there and he saw her. Karlach, swinging her maul like it weighed nothing, putting the goblins down like it was nothing. Karlach laughing loudly, fixing her grip on her war hammer, powerful legs digging into the dirt as she gathered strength, muscles tensing before a strike.)

Karlach. With his creation humming softly in her chest, giving her strength. Stabilising her.

Now it is evening, they are both here, and the time they didn’t have is shared equally.

She leaves the dagger alone – he almost sighs with relief – and replaces it with a bottle of Chultan Fireswill. She tips it his way and he nods, his cup soon filled with heavy, spiced liquor, smelling intensely of ginger and all things hot.

“Good job back there,” she says to him, her open palm stopping inches short of his shoulder, a ghost of her touch and a spark from the cinders. “Don’t think I didn’t see you swing that nasty hammer. You can pack a nice punch.”

He shrugs, a small smirk on his face disappearing behind the rim of his cup.

(He grabbed his forging hammer, ready as the horde broke into the centre of the grove – it was stupid, maybe reckless, but even then, in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to put any of his blades at risk of chipping. His heroic moment was fleeting but scary enough. He only knew that he hit someone and that someone wasn’t a friend. Other than that, his own participation in the grove’s defence was a blur, a hastily splotched painting of colours intertwining. Most of them shades of red.)

“We all did our parts, right? Admittedly, you did significantly more. And we’re all better off for it.”

“Yeah, I’m great, aren’t I?” she chuckles, then takes a long swig straight from the bottle. Her neck tenses, a droplet of fireswill slowly makes its way down her chin.

When she exhales with satisfaction, the spirit set aside, all he can do is blink.

“I just wish I could enjoy it a bit more,” she mutters almost mournfully. “The victory. I should be up on my feet you know? With some music and a partner I wouldn’t burn to a crisp. Do you dance, Dammon?”

“I’ve been known to.”

(He followed the music of iron and fire, lips begging for water, skin chapped and tender. With the reddened sky outside the window, machines whispering in his ears, he danced and danced and danced.)

He takes a quick sip.

“On occasion.”

She sighs, irritated, a closed fist over her burning heart.

“See? We could kill it! A little stomp and clap, a Waterdhavian Whirl, or one of those weird courtly bits when you hold hands and then switch a hand, and then do something weird with your feet. Damn.”

She lifts her eyes and copper speckles reach him. They mix with the fireswill in his brain, with ginger and all things hot. “I could spin you round the place like nobody’s business.”

 It is evening. The moon burns exceptionally bright and the shadows embrace them both. Karlach is all ashen greys on top of blazing reds, reminding him of days without cold, of desert-like soil, and songs of fire and forge.

It is then, exactly then, that he remembers… more. Images dance in front of his eyes and he closes them for a moment, committing them to memory for there is no paper and no time to waste searching for it.

When he’s done, it’s his turn to smile. This time, a promise is exactly the right word.

“Look, once we take off, find me in Baldur’s Gate. And if things go well… you’ll have your dance.”

“Well,” she tilts her head to the side and the bonfire awakens copper speckles in her eyes one more time, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

*

Baldur’s Gate never felt so far away as it does here.

Be grateful, he repeats to himself, smashing his hammer against a Harper’s rapier with what could easily pass as gusto was it not for his complete lack of enthusiasm. Be bloody grateful.

Last Light Inn. His new smithy is better, admittedly, with proper tools hanging on the walls, kissed only faintly by rust, and an anvil he can use without fearing he will bisect it with a slightly less measured hit. He has plenty of work, too, and some of that work even pays. But the world is shrouded with darkness, with no perspective of the sun forcing its way through it.

Some of that darkness took his people. Chanting the name of the Absolute, it made children scream, made Asharak the guardian kneel and take a sword to his throat, made Memnos the fighter fall to the ground with blood streaming from his mouth. And, perhaps, it messed with Zevlor’s mind, causing him to abandon them all. They were orphans yet again, no city, no Hellriders to beckon them home.

There was fighting, desperate fighting. Then there was running and running, and then running some more, packs and bags forgotten, and only one bundle clutched close to his chest, something unfinished inside, unfinished but precious.

When they – some of them – reached the inn, surrounded by something that was not yet light but not darkness anymore, he could only think one thing.

Hell was never this dark.

Shut up.

Be grateful.

He keeps repeating that as the blade cools on his anvil. He hits it some more, muscles sore with unnecessary effort, but he continues to hit.

Not that long ago what was unfinished became complete.

“Karlach!”

The name escaped his lips quickly and all too eager, but she answered in kind, waving to him from across the yard, only a few long steps away – steps she took faster than he anticipated. And then there she was, glowing in the darkness. A beacon. A flare of fire.

It was incredible. And surprising, so surprising; another tragedy struck them, struck him – and she appeared right away, all light and flame, and hope. He wanted to ask her how she found them, found him. And ask he did.

“I followed your scent, of course!” she laughed and he smiled – for it was him who could smell her, infernal iron in her and around her. The warmth of Avernus where it was never that dark.

It was a matter of moments, three or four flutters of a moth’s wings, when he was ready with a cooling valve, sketches and diagrams in his mind turning into a complete whole. A bundle held close to his chest, protected in the darkness, was put together and ready.

He could see the change immediately, as soon as her engine welcomed its new part; her scent faded a little and he could admit, deep down, that it made him wistful, if only for a split second.

“Did it… did it work?”

Her face, so open and sincere, emotions painted with broad brushstrokes.

He could only smile.

“Only one way to find out.”

His arm outstretched and palm open, he waited. A universal sign of no ill will. Of safety. She hesitated as she lifted her own hand, fingers shaking in the air. But to be a smith means to trust your creations; he reached for her, palm against palm and fingers joining together. There was nothing to be afraid of. No danger or threat of infernal burn. Only warmth.

They stood like this a while, hand in hand, her relearning to touch, him a patient test subject. Her chin wobbled a little, a short, blunt intake of breath followed, but then, then…

… then she was all smiles again, and the speckles of copper burnt like never before. She pulled him, his hand still in hers, then did something that could be considered a curtsy.

“You promised me a dance, right?”

And it was so absurd, so stupid with the real world so far away. But he laughed, then bowed, their hands never parting.

There was no music, only darkness around, but the moment tasted of ginger and all things hot. So they followed the faint memories of Chultan Fireswill; they did a proper stomp and clap, attempted the Waterdhavian Whirl – but none of the courtly dances when hands part even for a moment. And they twirled and cackled like idiots, because it’s good to be alive, even among all this darkness.

If he got some weird looks sent his way the day later, he didn’t mind that at all.

He was stable. And she was stabilised.

She came back a couple of days later and the world was becoming increasingly brighter. The land was sick with a curse and the only cure lay in blood. Blood she was willing to spill, she said, but rest was needed first.

"Well, if there’s anybody who can do it, I know it’s you,” he told her – and meant it. He remembered the grove, after all.

She grinned.

“Thanks. Just like there’s no one else I would trust with this old thing.” A hand over her engine. Open palm on open heart.

They exchanged glances, then smiles, then things got oddly quiet. But it was fine, he thought, because silence could be comfortable and this one was exactly that.

“So!”

Maybe not for both of them.

The word, spoken a tad too loud, a smidge too bright-toned. She cleared her throat, then shook her head, then her arms and, surprisingly, legs. “That upgrade part you made for me? Works like a charm and trust me, I checked. Touched all flammable things possible. And I can touch things. I can hug people now. So, wanna… hug?”

Silence. It could be comfortable at times.

“By the way, by ‘hug’ I mean ‘more than hug.’ As in, ‘get a room together and make a beast with two backs.' That means sex,” she added, nodding sharply as if she was truly worried he wouldn’t understand. All he could do was nod. Because he did.

“Unless you don’t want to,” she muttered after a moment of silence that wasn’t even close to comfortable, “then I’ve meant ‘hug’ all along.”

He wondered if it was possible to blush after spending so much time in the scorching heat of Avernus. Then, he wondered if his own blush reached the tips of his horns. Finally, to bide his time, he wondered if he’d hit his head with a hammer earlier that day – and, if so, how it could have possibly happened.

He was an adult. Had been for a while: he knew of sex from more than hearsay, might have even partaken a couple of times when he wasn’t too absorbed balancing a particularly difficult blade or explaining to yet another confused customer that no, he was not, in fact, a farrier. It’s not that he wasn’t interested.

It’s just that he would never think – dream – a moment like that would happen. Their relationship, if one could call it so, was a brief one, with clear benefits and no hidden agenda. Pursuing her was never the goal; that would be… unfair. He was a smith, after all, and the call of iron was strong. But, as he had the time to learn, the call of Karlach was even stronger.

And there she stood, looking at him intensely, teeth worrying a soft bottom lip.

“Look, if you don’t want to, that’s okay,” she said, eyebrows knit, and he realised silence could not last forever.

“No!”

The word escaped his lips quickly. Eagerly. But it was all right. He knew she’d respond in kind. “I mean… yes. Yes, I wanna… hug?”

Silence. A heartbeat. A soft, loving hum of the machine in her heart. The one he mended, took care of, gave strength.

Strength. She practically lifted him up and warmth, sulphur, copper overwhelmed him.

He didn’t mind at all.

The first time is… rambunctious, to say the least. Chairs were being flipped over, walls crashed into, air leaving his lungs abruptly at the impact as an entity of fire and iron and warmth pushed against him, then pushed him down, then allowed him to push in. It was quick and sweaty, and beautiful.

The second time, he thinks now, was even better.

Bodies spent, lacking energy. His clawed hand traced the expanse of her stomach, slowly, lightly, until she started giggling uncontrollably.

“That tickles, you ass!”

He smiled, then pressed more firmly and soon, as he reached short, curly hair and felt the flush of wet heat that’s beneath it, replaced his fingers with his lips. And she glowed, in more ways than one, purring with pleasure, her hands on his horns in a tight grip.

Infernal iron may be spiteful, but then all it did was rest, sated and stabilised; it might have been luck, it might been a threat, perhaps silence before the storm – but there, then, for a while, they were spared its bite. There was only warmth. Softening the edges. Balancing what’s unbalanced.

“Damn,” she said right to the ceiling, hours later, bedsheets forgotten, “being alive is so much fun.”

And he agreed, no additional notes needed.

Shortly after, in the morning – or what they consider morning in these cursed lands – she set out, companions in tow, and he watched her go away and away and away until she became a faded dot of red in the sea of black. Then he headed to his smithy.

Again.

Now she’s gone again, saving people again, and he’s back at the forge that isn’t his. Again.

So he hits the Harper’s rapier again and again, and again, in darkness and in fire, waiting for the curse to be broken and the wheel of time to turn right back to its beginning.

Be grateful. The rapier breaks.

Be grateful.

*

“Oi Dammon! Try it!”

Baldur’s Gate is full of surprises.

One moment you work in your new smithy, shiny and fresh from the box (even though it doesn’t make you as thrilled as it should, nothing really does, because there is fear and longing, and the fire doesn’t seem right), the next a tall woman with a broad smile and a time bomb in her chest shoves an entire honey cake into your unsuspecting mouth.

He chokes, he coughs, he loses his breath – but it doesn’t matter.

She snorts, amused, then graciously pats him on the back.

“How’s that for an entrance?”

Her pack falls down to the ground with a thud, followed by a clang of her blade. Then she leans down, their faces close together, and he’s finally able to taste honey on his tongue. It’s heavy. Spiced. Intense like ginger and all things hot.

This fire is right. And for that, he is grateful.

*

It feels so (surprising, incredible, delightful) right to fall into a comfortable routine together.

Baldur’s Gate is not the most welcoming of settlements, with his people still wasting away in the Rivington refugee camp serving as an indicator. But there are walls between them and the Absolute and the world isn’t so dark anymore. The time comes when one needs to count one’s blessings, of which there are… a few.

One, he got in. Yes, the Gate is not the most welcoming, but it welcomed him eventually, stability and skill winning the day. Now he makes a weekly pilgrimage over the bridge, a basket of food in his hand and gossip of a possible job opening upon his lips. The camp is still full, but it holds fewer of his kin now than before and that is a blessing in and of itself.

Two, there is work in the city.

There were… difficulties at first. People approaching his smithy with kindness on their faces, but none of it reaching their eyes. Polite people, concerned people, people full of innocent questions. He learned almost immediately that if someone evoked the name of Gond in the conversation, the only proper course of action was to deny everything, no matter the inquiry. There were secrets tied to the name of the god with a blood-red string. And, for once, Dammon truly believed ignorance could be a blessing.

The import of goods came to a halt soon after he passed the gates. The Steel Watch Foundry, a monster of a building down in the docks, swallows up most of the raw material left in the city. Still, there is still enough left for him to buy a scrap or two for twice as much coin as it should cost. He works on commissions. Small orders. He makes do. Even though he wishes sometimes he had enough bite to him to charge more – especially when a customer practically leans over his arm, carrying on about the Steel Watch taking away their jobs. Or, as of late, about refugees taking away their jobs. In moments like that, a hammer to the head would make for a great first instalment. But it’s easy to grit his teeth and keep on working. Counting blessings.

Three, he is happy. Life is hard just like it has always been, but now there are moments that make up for all the woes. He is… happy. And now Karlach (surprising, incredible, delightful) is here, too.

Their routine is comfortable. Right. She comes and goes as she pleases, crisp and sharp with the city as her background (hasn’t it always been this way?), and he waits. Works. Feet on the ground until she decides he needs to fly. Sometimes she stays for the night and they crawl under the bedsheets in his rented bed, the night smells of soap and cleanliness until it changes into coals and sweat and fire. Sometimes she drops by only for a moment, a quick change of gear, a brief look around the shop (he gives her discounts, of course; then, he tries to promptly forget them because there’s only so much his craftsman’s heart can take). A fleeting kiss.

Sometimes things look exactly like today.

“What happened?”

“I happened. To many, many people.”

She chuckles, her satisfaction clear.

She stands on the threshold of his shop, breathing a bit more heavily than usual, her face black and blue almost literally. Armour indented in several places, leather fastenings torn. If he squints, Dammon can see a hint of a bandage here and there, though what he thinks about said hint goes far beyond what’s proper to say in mixed company.

“You know,” he says as he hooks an arm around her waist and helps her to the closest chair in his shop, to the sound of her scoffs and protests, “people used to go to a blacksmith with different injuries back in the day. Teeth pulling, bone resetting…”

“What?” She tilts her head to the side, covering a pained grimace with a grin and fooling no one. “You’re telling me you want to pull my teeth? Or maybe… you’re hoping I’ll reset your bone?”

He knows, he just knows, his cheeks are burning and it’s simply ridiculous. He exhales, then clears his throat, and then he’s fine again.

“I’m telling you I know how to dress a wound.”

He eyes her dirtied bandages pointedly, some of them almost soaked through.

“Properly.”

She shrugs, then peels some of her clothes off, revealing skin marred by scars way more than he remembers. He closes the shop for the day with unspeakable satisfaction (he had one of those clients today and an offer of a hammer to the head still stands), then boils a kettle of water. Karlach hums softly, shifts on the chair, snaps her fingers in uneven rhythm – sure signs of someone who can’t stay idle for long. Sympathetic, he fills her hands with a cup of brandy.

“Don’t you have a healer in that party of yours? I thought it comes with territory…”

He starts peeling the linens off her skin and she sucks in a breath as rugged tears in her flesh refuse to let go of the fabric.

“Yes. Shadowheart. The one with the bangs and the attitude. But we’re not talking to each other.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“All right then.”

“It’s just that words were said. Unfair words, but hey, that’s all I’m going to say.”

“Fine.”

“Like I said, don’t wanna talk about it.”

He nods, too occupied with a nasty gash right over her collarbone.

Suddenly, she straightens up, cracking her knuckles with a crunch and almost knocking him off.

“All right, I’ll tell you then!”

The rest of the day falls neatly into their routine; she rants and bellows and complains until her own snivelling tone starts to amuse her and she laughs out loud, grudges forgotten; he listens and observes and tries to be helpful, then shakes his head in awe of her switching moods, thoroughly entertained and absolutely enchanted. Dirty linens are piling on the floor; she hisses in pain, both real and imaginary, pouting and moaning like a child as he cleans the cuts and more serious wounds. But she also leans against him, trusting and open. They remain like that long after her wounds are dressed and taken care of and the day reaches its end.

And it is so nice to sit here together, even if life is hard just like it has always been. He is happy.

That, in and of itself, is a blessing.

*

There is no saving her.

“What’s this one for?”

There is no saving her.

“But are you really sure-“

“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”

There is no saving her.

Eyes meeting eyes. He knows there is no saving her and she knows it as well, but it would be so much easier if she just listened to what he has to say.

“Just… let’s just talk about your shop. Okay? So, what is this one for?”

She points at the planishing hammer. He focuses his eyes on it. There is no saving her. Unless she goes back to Avernus.

“It’s for finishing the blade. Smoothing the fuller.”

Not even a tenday passed since she dropped by the smithy, her smile embroidered with threads of doubt.

“And this one?”

There was an… incident, she told him, her voice high-pitched and eyes searching. A small pickle. She had burnt one of her companions – only stung them a little, no big deal, the wound was more than manageable. She almost forgot about it, but then it happened again. And again. Small burns. Small nothings. Over and over again.

A lot of things can go wrong with infernal machinery. And they all did. Again.

“A hacksaw. To cut metal sheets.”

So he cut and welded and hammered down what little infernal iron she could find for him. He attempted to make his own alloys, to blend the impossible with the unimaginable.

“This little guy?”

“These are tongs. Surely you’ve seen them before?”

“Ah, the teeth-pullers, right?”

“Look at you. A proper blacksmithing expert.”

Forgoing anything else, he worked day and night, food and drink ignoredand washcloth lying forgotten in the washtub, he worked until he couldn’t feel his hands. With infernal iron whispering into his ear, drilling into his skull, howling triumphantly in his blood, he carried on. Nothing worked.

“I am one, yes. Through osmosis.”

“And that is?...”

“Gale taught me that word. The mage, remember him? A skittish fellow, but we all pretend he’s all cool and serious. Anyway, osmosis is when, um… well, I don’t know exactly, but if you ask Gale, he’ll tell you.”

Nothing. The atmosphere on the surface is incorrect, he recalls. The air is too diluted, the wind too cold. Infernal mechanics is a craft of whimsy, indeed, forged with fleeting hopes and reinforced with luck.

“It’s gotta have something to do with sex though. I bet your little tail I got your blacksmithing thingies in the process. Like a… drizzle of inspiration. From the pounding of your hammer. The sparks from your anvil. You know, when you nailed-“

“Please stop.”

There is a cure for this illness. And it lies in blood. In Avernus, where its true home is, the infernal machine in her chest would stop fighting against her. In the scorching heat of the desert-like lands, the spite of iron would lessen.

“I wonder if you got some of my cool stuff, too. Some of my strength or something. Men are super weak around these parts, have you noticed?”

“If I start picking up random people and throwing them in different directions for no reason, I’ll know I have you to thank.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank osmosis. Whatever it is.”

He would go with her, of course. If only to take care of her heart. If only to make sure it doesn’t kill her.

“Karlach…”

“No. I already told you. I’m not going back there. So… drop it. Don’t do this to yourself.”

But there is no saving her.

She holds out her hand and he takes it immediately, without hesitation. She presses them to her chest, his open palm on her open heart. No heartbeat. Just pistons and valves.

There is warmth, too, but he isn’t comforted.

*

“It won’t be long now, I think.”

The world is crumbling. Tremors shake the city in a fever nobody knows how to cure. The gates are closed but it seems to matter little; there are strange forces at hand, forces beyond Dammon’s understanding. But Karlach knows more and, even though she spares him details, it is enough for her words to ring true.

It won’t be long.

He remembers Elturel.

It only lasts a split second: a flight into nothingness, people screaming, crumbling rocks. Then his brain shuts, merciful as it is, and a series of images cut. But he can’t, won’t, wouldn’t cut Karlach out.

Karlach. Warm, warmer than before, reminding him of his desperate attempts and even more desperate failures. Karlach, with truth painted on her face and hands slightly trembling. Karlach. With his creation still humming softly in her chest, still giving her strength. Stabilising her. For now.

It won’t be long.

They are in his shop behind the smithy as their routine dictates. The day is ending and so is the world. Some things want to be spoken, should be spoken, but he remembers. Don’t do this to yourself. So he doesn’t; instead, he waits. His arm outstretched and palm open. A universal sign of no ill will. Of safety.

She entwines their fingers, their hands resting on her heart. A dry, hot whiff of air washes over Dammon’s palm. A faint scent of burnt hair and unburnt fuel reaches his nostrils, still barely discernible but oh so painfully present. The bite of infernal iron.

The world is ending and so is the day, but it’s only Karlach that matters.

“Gods, how I adore that little face,” she blurts out and he wants to laugh, would laugh, laughing is all he feels like he can do, but there is sheer sincerity in her voice and the eyes, the eyes, the eyes. He reaches for her unbroken horn and pulls her down, lips crashing together. Teeth are clashing against each other, an infernal promise of a bite, but he doesn’t mind for there is also her tongue, soothing and caressing, lips warm and reddened. Even if he can feel a memory of flames on his skin at times, even if a ghost of a hellish kiss licks his cheek, it isn’t important.

It won’t be long.

She pulls away and looks at him intensely, their faces inches away.

“I want to… I want to. Just for you. One more time.”

One last time. He knows his copper – words bend and adjust, eager to please, to take the edge off. But he understands.

His hands cup her face, warm freckly skin against calloused pads.

There is no point in being stable. Not anymore.

Whatever she gives, he accepts. A nod follows. His feet leave the ground.

From this moment forward, no matter what he does and which way he faces, all he can see is speckles of copper.

There are only a few long steps to be crossed to reach the bed and soon, his face drowns in fresh cotton. He feels the dry roughness of her horns on his back, the broken one digging into the cleft between his shoulder blades. Then there are cold kisses of her metal piercings. Then just kisses, wet puffs of air breathed into his skin as leg hooks over a leg and strong, gentle hands help him find a better angle, lay more comfortably on the pillows she propped up for him. Then there are flames and burning coals, searching for skin to scorch, to reveal the iron flowing in veins below, molten and hot. There is sweetness and salt of sweat, rain of tears no one will ever see and sunshine of laughter to be heard for eternity.

Karlach is a flare of fire. Last spark among cinders.

No living being should burn so bright. And yet they do. Both of them.

He knows there is no turning back for him now. Even if he wanted to, there is no stopping his furnace of a heart. Copper to copper, they melt together and he can only hope it means as much to her as it does to him.

It won’t be long.

“So, how many kids do you want?”

They lie together. There is nothing but darkness outside the window, not even a vague glimmer of a street lamp reaches them. He turns his head to her, then smirks.

“Not to be the bringer of bad news, but that’s not how you make a ba-“

“Oh, don’t be stupid!” she pokes him right between the eyebrows, a flash of white teeth visible even in the dark. A stupid joke. But it worked, even if only for a moment. “We will never have any. Well, you, maybe…”

“Karlach…”

There are other ways, he wants to tell her. Other cures. But then he remembers. And even if he doesn’t, she reminds him promptly. Don’t do this to yourself. She waves her hand dismissively, then reaches for him, her fingers feeling hot, heated, against his jaw.

“Just… just humour me on this one, okay? How many?”

He gives in, maybe more eagerly than he should.

They will have a child. Two children. Three. As many they can, children galore. Adopted or birthed, it doesn’t matter; all incredibly smart and talented, and behaved way better than the two of them were back in their own days of yore. They will raise them well, stern if needed, but mostly loving; they will never raise a hand on any – siblings usually take care of that as is their gods-given right. They will live somewhere in the countryside, or better yet, in a settlement of their own making, starting small, maybe with a roadside inn, then the place will grow and grow, until it will cover the entire world. And they will be together, their hearts healthy and tended to, even if there is no name to whatever it is between them. They will be together and the call of infernal iron will stop singing in their heads. She will stop being afraid of it. He will stop craving it.

It won’t be long.

When inspiration abandons him when naming Child Number Seven, she starts laughing hysterically, legs kicking, arms clutching her stomach, the machine in her chest coughing and stuttering. He joins in as if on command, eyes crinkled, lips twisted in a smile, tears flowing freely until darkness disappears and the last day begins.

They lie together. They do.

*

As those things usually go, the world didn’t end.

Baldur’s Gate is an entity of steel: what’s broken can be reforged, the indents beaten out again, splinters smelted and formed anew. People leave their hiding spots, blinking in the light of the sun – and the new reality feels raw, naked, stripped from the protective coat of closed gates and high walls, with the wicked kept outside and the righteous inside. Bodies adorn the streets, monstrous and human alike, joined together in the kiss of death. It takes less than an hour for the common folk to organise themselves, wheelbarrows get put to use, hands lift the debris and open the way. There is work in the city again.

Only two types of people survive: those who bend and adjust, eager to please, and those who remain unchanged, solid and stable.

Dammon is neither of those people.

Making his way through the sea of people, against the current and better judgment, he approaches his smithy. The door slid from the hinges and it takes a bit of muscle work to force it open, but eventually, he wins: he enters the shop and spares no time to look around. He knows well enough that the place was looted, weapons grabbed in haste and used shortly after. He doesn’t mind. Desperate times.

He reaches for a travelling pack under his bed, tangled bedsheets hanging from the side and concealing it from view. Slowly, methodically, he fills its belly with things he deems essential. His planishing hammer. A hacksaw, a pair of splinters. A bottle of Chultan Fireswill. A couple of copper coins melted together.

She didn’t come back.

But she is alive.

The city may be all tarnished steel, but there is no broken heart of iron sleeping silently in one of the chests under the rubble. She may not be here now, but he feels, he knows, the streets of the city felt her warmth not too long ago. There are traces of her presence everywhere, the muted world remembering a flare of fire. He can smell her even now, infernal iron in her and around her. The warmth of Avernus, calling for the warmth of his hands. Just enough to soften the edge.

He will follow her scent, wherever it will lead him. He is an unusual smith, after all. And the call of Karlach was stronger than anything.

He knows his copper now. And once he got to finally know it, he is hellbent on not letting it go.

And if Karlach is out there – and she is, he knows she is – she will be anything but solid. Fighting against her own heart, the caprice of infernal metal overwhelming her. Fragile. Unstable.

But he knows he can be solid enough for both of them.

Cinders and forge bid him farewell for good. So he packs his tools, locks the door to his last and final smithy, and goes straight to Hell.