Title: Forged in Ireland by @artistic-writer
Rating: P for penis innuendo and T for its real rating.
Summary: Humourous Forged in Fire AU. Four novice bladesmiths, three of them Irish, compete in one of the toughest competitions of its type, Forged in Fire. Killian Jones, his brother Liam Jones, Graham Humbert and David Nolan. Who will win? Who has the skills to best the other men?
A/N: Thank you to my kickass beta, @hollyethecurious - I’m posting this for @kmomof4 who i promised a fic to yesterday, but them posted a whump fic instead. No one dies in this one ;)
"Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame."- John Hurt
They had never met until now, apart from Killian and Liam, who were brothers. Graham, a tall, curly haired, blue-eyed bulk of a man, was also from Ireland. The three of them had made it through to round two of one of the toughest competitions currently aired on American television. Forged in Fire. Four bladesmiths competing against the clock for the grand prize, which, as they had all learned when the fourth competitor, David, had been eliminated, was much tougher than they had anticipated.
“We’re sorry, David, but your blade did not make the cut.”
Red-faced and in slight shock, David had gathered his tools and left the studio, or the forge as it was known. He hung his head as he walked out of the room, metal tools rattling in his tool bag, lifting it again as he had been instructed by the production team. They were going to put a slow motion shot of him leaving and they wanted him looking tall and proud, his own opinion on getting eliminated voicing over the sequence.
“It’s tougher than you think, and I respect the judges. It was the right choice. I just didn’t make the best knife today and that’s okay because I’ve learned a lot.”
“David’s knife was good,” Graham whispered to Liam, their forges right next to each other back in the studio. “I thought I was going for sure.”
“Aye,” Liam muttered under his breath with a nod, setting his footing into a wider stance behind his anvil.
“This is tough,” Killian whispered to both of them, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his words.
“Bladesmiths!” Wil Willis bellowed out over the forge, making all three men turn to face him. “Round two,” he grinned devilishly. Killian gulped. “You have three hours in which to attach handles to your weapons using the items offered to you,” he motioned to the well-dirtied metal racking in the corner of the room, stacked with offcuts of all kinds of materials, “turning them into fully functioning weapons for our judges tests, which include a rope slice and sleeper chop.” Liam, Killian, and Graham all followed the motion of his arm, eyes scanning the pieces of odd materials. “But,” he added dramatically, and they all returned their gaze to him. “They must include a guard and an element from this.”
They all held their breath as the host reached for the silky red sheet covering an oddly shaped object. With a flick of his wrist, the material fell away to reveal a huge, brass ship propeller sitting neatly on the table in front of them.
“Oh, Jesus,” Graham uttered, his words lost on a chuckle.
Killian looked over to his brother, both ex-naval men, and smirked. It was ironic, in a strange way, that the thing that had carried them across oceans would now, potentially, sink them.
“Bladesmiths, your three hours begins...now!” Willis yelled and all three men scurried to the pantry.
“I have no idea what I am going to do,” Graham mumbled to himself. His blade had received the most attention from the judges because of a slight warp in his tang. He could fix this easily by hiding his tang in a cylinder of material as a through tang, but which to choose? His eye scanned the shelves, flitting back and forth before he fixed his gaze on some deer antler. It was big enough to drill and shape into a comfortable handle, so he grabbed it before either Jones brother had a chance to.
Killian went to the top shelf immediately, spying some Micarta. It was one of the strongest materials and would stand up to the tests set out by the judges, but as he reached for it, so did Liam. They both looked at each other with a smirk, fingers holding the grey material tight.
“Age before beauty, brother,” Killian quipped with a wry grin, releasing his hold on the scale.
“No, no, I insist,” Liam said with a nod, offering Killian the piece. “Shit before the shovel, little brother.” He’d uttered the words under his breath, and they would probably be edited out of the final cut of the show, but it was mostly lost in Killian’s laugh. “Here, take it. For your little knife,” he smiled.
“I assure you, brother,” Killian began, pushing the Micarta back into Liam’s hand. “My knife, much like other things, will be much bigger than yours.”
Liam took the Micarta with a smirk, heading back to his workbench, whilst Killian grabbed some African Blackwood. It was strong and would fit his blade well, the rustic, camp knife style with a Celtic twist. Traditionally, Celtic knives were shorter, more like a small dagger, with a single loop handle and leather wrapped handle, but the shows specifications meant he had to go bigger. Killian had made a Viking Seax, a single edged blade with, traditionally, a handle made of natural materials, a knife style that had a reputation as a great chopper.
“I’ve made a Seax. It’s strong, and it’s a great chopping blade that will knock my brother right out of the competition. I’m going to cut off a piece of the prop, flatten it out and slide it between the scales and my tang, giving my handle a third layer.”
Killian ran to the tool bench, eyes searching over the dusty surface until he found what he was looking for. The grinder, fitted with a diamond cutting disc, was in his grasp before he could blink, and he then ran to the propeller in the front of the forge.
“Looks like Killian is taking a huge chunk of that flat edge side of the prop,” said David Baker, historic weapons expert and advisor to Hollywood.
“He is most likely going to flatten it out and use it somewhere in his handle,” J. Nielsen, another of the judges, pointed out, watching Killian whizz across the room with the section of propeller he had ground off.
Killian was at his anvil in a second, gripping the brass in his tongs and whacking it flat with his blacksmith’s hammer. The sound of metal on metal rang out, a bead of sweat on Killian’s brow falling to his anvil. The forge was hot, heat from the four propane forges still lingering in the air, and with each collision to his anvil, Killian felt the ricochet in his wrist and his forearm.
“Hitting that brass a little hard there, brother?” Liam teased, brushing past Killian with his own part of the propeller. He had popped off the boss cap, unscrewing the bolt that held the shaft in place, testing the weight in his hands. “When are you going to learn that hitting something harder doesn’t always yield the best results.”
“And when are you going to learn, brother,” Killian began, grinning from ear to ear with a filthy smirk. “The force from a hammer is proportional to the size of the tool. I cannot be held accountable if my tool is bigger than yours.”
“So you say,” Liam sniggered, shaking his head at his brother’s cockiness.
“Have you ever heard a complaint?” Killian raised an eyebrow at his brother who met his comment with silence. “I didn’t think so.”
“Layers will add integrity as well as a sleekness to my blade. I’m going to slip the brass under the scales to give my knife a really sexy look, kind of like a brass vest under a wooden jacket.”
Once he had the brass as flat as he could get it, Killian got back to his table and set about tracing the holes of his tang so he could drill out the brass and African Blackwood. Killian knew Liam’s plan. He had already watched him put a thread on the end of his tang so he could just screw the brass bolt in place and shape it on the belt sander. It was ingenious, really, but Killian liked the challenge of creating the perfect handle for his blade.
Glancing to his right, Killian spotted a frown on Graham’s face.
“Uh oh,” Willis thought out loud, spying Graham’s mistake instantly. All three of the judges followed his nod of direction, sucking in mouthfuls of air through their teeth in a triple wince. “Looks like Graham has messed up his material.”
Graham, in his haste to repair his warped tang, had misjudged the size and angle of the hole needed in his deer antler and had managed to drill right through the side of it. He sighed audibly, shaking his head from side to side before swiping his hand over his brow. Antler dust stuck to his sweaty forehead and the muscles in his jaw ticked.
“You can fix it,” Killian encouraged, his voice shaking Graham from his self directed rage. “Get some dust and epoxy,” he instructed selflessly.
It was like a lightbulb went off in Graham’s brain and he rushed to the saw, gathering what dust he could so he could mix it with some epoxy resin and steel dust. His handle would be off colour, but it would be functional, and that was the most important part of the competition.
“Thanks, mate,” he called to Killian who simply gave him a nod of assurance.
“Did you see that?” Willis asked the judges, directing his question at Doug Marcaida, an edged weapons specialist. “Killian just helped his fellow competitor.”
“He’s a source of inspiration,” Doug nodded humbly. “Great men are forged in fire,” he began, pointing out Killian who continued to work on his blade handle with a stern focus. “It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.”
“Did you just quote Doctor Who?” David Baker asked his colleague, aghast the man had delivered such a poetic quote from a TV show character.
“John Hurt,” Doug laughed. “As Doctor Who.”
All three men were at the same stage. The materials they had collected had been sized and cut into a rough shape using the huge bandsaw, and they are all currently hunched over their workbenches mixing epoxy. Two syringes full of the two resins were squeezed into each other on a flat surface, mixed with a flat spatula made of wood, the chemical reaction happening almost instantly. Graham added his dust to the epoxy, turning it into a lump consistency that wasn’t as easily spread over his tang as the glue Liam and Killian were using. They all rushed to get their handle scales in place, tapping them gently with a hammer.
“No, no, no!” Liam cursed, turning from his bench dramatically and running his steel greyed hands through his curled hair.
“Tap, tap, tap, crack. I’m done. Now my blasted brother is going to win.”
“Oh no,” one of the judges said. “Looks like Liam has broken one of his scales.”
Liam ground his jaw in frustration. He had hit the handle material too hard at just the wrong angle and it had snapped the top corner of his scale. He stared at his knife, shoulders tensed, fists balled in anger. In his anticipation to get his handle fixed he had lost his patience with tapping the delicate material with the hammer, chipping of a corner. It was a little too much to cover with some strategic sanding, so he had no choice but to start again.
“It’s going to be tricky getting those scales off now,” judge J. Nielsen told host Wil Willis. “His epoxy is already set.”
“Fuck!” Liam grunted, sure his outburst would most certainly not make a final cut.
Killian looked up from his own project, his brother’s cheeks pink with a mixture of heat and fury. He looked at Liam’s faux pas, sitting in front of his brother like a mockery of his skills, and his lips turned up into a smug grin.
“Problem, brother?” Killian taunted, looking back to his own work. His epoxy had set, fusing two brass plates between his tang and his outer wooden scales. It was perfect. All he had to do was sand it to shape.
Liam didn’t answer, punting his toe into the edge of his table.
“Shorten it,” Killian barked over the sound of Graham grinding his handle behind him. Liam looked over to him, raising an eyebrow in Jones brother fashion. “It’s only a tad, Liam,” Killian added, leaving his bench to pick up his brother’s knife. He pointed at the end, rubbing his grease covered thumbnail over the butt of Liam’s handle. “You can cut a smidge off, add an extra layer of new material and then thread your bolt on the end.”
Liam looked up at his brother, astounded by his commanding nature. He barely had time to respond before Killian thrust his knife back into his hands and Willis was announcing a time frame.
“Bladesmiths! You have thirty minutes remaining!”
Graham began humming a tune to himself as he pushed his knife handle against the sanding belt. Dust flew towards the floor and into his face, the mask he was wearing shielding his most from most of the splinters of antler. He was rushing, grinding in the wrong direction when all of a sudden the knife slipped from his grasp and his fingers were pushed against the coarse sanding belt, his knife point stabbing into his palm.
“Jesus, fuck!” He screeched, his Irish accent much thicker than it had been all day.
“Maybe, my reaction was bit drastic, but at least now I can say that literally my blood, sweat and tears are in that blade.”
“Oh, we got blood!” David Baker announced, tapping J.Nielsen’s arm in excitement.
“Is Graham going to need a medic?” Willis frowned, arching his neck to see more clearly.
“Are you alright, mate?” Killian asked Graham, his voice muffled behind his own face mask. He lifted his head, shutting off his machine to silence the screech of the belt, placing his knife on the bench beside it. “Is it bad?”
Graham hissed, clutching his hand to his chest. Killian motioned him closer and encouraged him to show him his hand, dark crimson flowing from his palm as soon as Graham opened it. Killian shook his head, looking up to catch the eye of Wil Willis, motioning with his arm.
“Can we get a medic in there?” Willis said, concern etched on his face.
Paramedics rushed to Graham’s aid. Liam downed his tools and for the first time ever, in the history of the entire show, the clock was stopped. Graham had sat on the floor under a medic’s instruction, and his leg was shaking, knee tapping the floor to distract from the pain throbbing through his hand.
“Is he going to be able to continue?” Baker thought out loud.
Graham was lost in a huddle of men, Killian pushed out by the circle by the medics. He looked over to Liam, his face pale, absolutely no colour in his cheeks, a solemn look on his face.
“When I reached Graham, I saw that his palm was sliced nearly to the back of his hand. His little pinkie finger was almost cut clean off, and the first thing I think is, he can’t possibly continue. The second thing is, that means it’s down to me and Liam. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad disappointed to be entering the final round because of an injury, but that won’t make besting my brother during the final any less satisfying.”
After the drama had cleared and Graham was on his way to the hospital, the forge fell silent once more. Liam and Killian stood before the judges table, part finished blades wrapped in protective blue cloth in their hands. Killian shuffled his feet, scuffing the dust with the toe of his boot, and Liam was nervously gripping his blade.
“Due to Graham’s medical elimination, there will be no need for further testing of your blades,” Wil Willis began, addressing both of the men in front of him. “For the first time in this competition’s history, we have brothers competing for the title and the check for ten grand.” He had his fingers tented, pointing to each brother in turn. “Congratulations on making the finale round. How do you guys feel about that?”
“No finer opponent,” Liam shrugged, looking sideways at his brother who had his trademark smirk and raised eyebrow plastered on his face.
“May the best man win,” Killian added, bobbing excitedly on the balls of his feet.
“Liam, Killian, we asked you here to forge a blade in your signature style, and we have not overlooked the fact that most of our competitors in this competition were Irish, so now we are sending you back to your home forges to recreate an iconic weapon from Celtic history.”
“The instant Wil Willis mentions Celtic, my heart flutters. Our family has strong Celtic roots, so beating Liam is going to be all that much sweeter.”
Liam looked to his brother, the same gleeful expression lighting up both their faces at the host's words. He hadn’t even revealed the weapon yet and they were both poised to explode with excitement as he reached for the red, silk cloth covering it next to him.
“And that weapon is...the Irish Ring-Hilted Sword.”
The covering fell away from the sword in slow motion, the glint of the silvered pommel catching their eyes. It was beautiful. A long, hefty sword with a distinctive design that simultaneously caused joy and terror to course through them both. What looked like a simple design was actually a long list of complex crafting techniques the show's host was about to divulge.
“You’ll have five days at your home forges in which to complete this challenge,” Willis said enthusiastically, a wicked grin on his face. “Your blades must meet the following parameters. The length of your blade must be between twenty nine and thirty one inches in length, it must be double edged, and include a fuller on both sides of the blade, that runs at least three quarters the length of the blade. You must have an ‘s’ shaped guard, with forked terminals, with at least three prongs on each terminal. Additionally, you must include a ringed pommel, through which you can see the tang. Bladesmiths, after five days you will return to present your swords to our panel of judges, and after they have thoroughly tested them, and inspected the quality of your work, they’ll declare one of you the Forged in Fire champion, who’ll walk out of here with a check for ten thousand dollars. Good luck, Bladesmiths. We’ll see you in five days.”
“Unfortunately, for Killian, he is not used to wielding such an impressive weapon, so it’s going to be easy to, once and for all, instill in him that he will always be the little brother.”
“My older brother seems too preoccupied with the size of the weapon when it’s really about how the sword will perform. I assure you, I’m up for this challenge, and when I forge the better weapon, and I will, whoever is jabbed with it, will most certainly feel it.”
After five days in their home forges, and after extensive rounds of judge testing - including both brother’s hearing Doug Marcaida declare that their blades ‘would cut’ - it was settled once and for all.
as the youngest sibling, soojung learns that more often than naught, the short stick always falls upon her. without fail; if there's something to be done, soojung is to be the one. if something goes wrong, it's on soojung's hands. it's always this, always that. soojung has learned to take the brunt of consequences well; she has learned to take orders with grace and dignity.
but a hate grows, licks in her gut; volatile and wild as she stands next to her siblings, head held up high as she grazes her eyes over the dancing crowd. her fingers are clasped together, tight and white knuckled-- and the touch on her shoulder has her tensing.
"near the back corner. near the duke-- you see him, yes?" the hushed voice of her sister's echoes in her ear. soojung blinks, gives the slightest bit of a nod. "that's him. you do your best, make us proud. we'll do everything else." soojung fights back the shudder; what horrible things her siblings have done, will do to the life of this man. all for the sake of wealth, for safety.
"of course." she whispers, and with a tap to her shoulder, she's off. heeled feet clicking against the floor as she crosses the ballroom. she holds herself with the dignity, the grace of someone refined-- of someone who knows luxury like no other.
she swallows back the nerves. she's done this countless times before, bare the ring of so many men on her finger she's long since stopped counting.
"hello," she greets, a small, simple smile on her face as she bows her head. "a sir, kim -- kim jongin, was it?" her head tilts the side, curiosity shining in the depths. practices, perfected; soojung almost feels sickened with how easy it becomes. "i am honored to meet your acquaintance."
