Work Text:
WESTERN CONTINENT-STYLE LAMB STEW
Young domestic sheep——cubed
Carrots——≥ 2
Onions——≥ 2
Garlic——to taste
Tomatoes——enough for a base
Green peppers——if available
Flour——as needed
Red wine——≥ 1 bottle
Peppercorns, cumin, cloves, cardamon, coriander, cinnamon, chili——generous handful
Parsley——for garnishing
Salt
⚜
Mithrun's new life in Merini, as senior consul of the embassy established by order of the queen of the elves, unfolded with a peacefulness that—when he thought about it—struck him as astonishing.
His duties revolved around surveying and reporting on the natural dungeons that had emerged in this reborn kingdom. On the front of actual diplomacy, his primary task entailed acquiescing to panicked requests from Pattadol, as chief ambassador for the elves, to provide moral support at meetings with the land's anointed king. During these meetings, he would sit back and let her, assisted by Yaad and Kabru, assiduously explain proposed agreements to said king, whose knitted brows and earnest expressions were interspersed with obvious attempts to hold back yawns.
Occasionally, his opinion would be solicited; rarely, he was moved to comment beyond a nod or a shake of his head. On such occurrences, Laios generally tended to sit straighter, while Pattadol, Yaad, and Marcille displayed various degrees of startlement, and Kabru steepled his hands, projecting a grave air that couldn't quite conceal the enjoyment flashing across his face.
The lack of major incidents, at least concerning Merini's affably understaffed court, stood in stark contrast to every horror he'd dealt with in the dungeons of his previous life. Nonetheless, he reactivated wariness during his forays into Merini's dungeons, given the persistence of monsters on the lookout for prey that had gone scarce. Peace, after all, was founded on vigilance.
In this string of serene days there came one, as unassuming as any other, when he bumped into Kabru at the largest rare book store in Kahka Brud.
It wasn't the first time they'd met in this place, and he'd nodded in greeting. Before he could head up the staircase to the shelves on history and military arts, however, he was stopped. Kabru had proceeded to inquire about coming over and preparing dinner for them both: he wanted to make a real lamb stew, with a proper array of ingredients; the kind you found variations of across the Western Continent, which also wasn't the kind of dish you made to eat alone.
I found a good butcher in the market, he'd continued brightly. His meat's as fresh as what my mother used to cook with. And there's a spice stall whose owners are also from out west—the point is, I'll bring everything the dish needs, and I'll get it right this time. How about it, Captain?
Why not, he'd agreed. I suppose it won't taste like crab, at least.
Kabru had chuckled in the way where the corners of his eyes crinkled.
I'll be at your house tomorrow evening, then, he'd said, making him a slight bow and waving to the store owner before he exited; the book tucked into the crook of his arm had been on the comparative legal history of dwarf and elven regimes in the Central Continents.
He hadn't returned to the staircase until Kabru's back went out of sight. His mind's eye had revived the pan of Barometz stew painstakingly cobbled together for him in the depths of the dungeon; the bright, blood-like juices of ersatz lamb staining Kabru's tawny hands; the diffident smile crossing his face in unselfconscious appeal.
It wouldn't be a bad thing at all to have another experience like that.
His first reason for saying yes boiled down to the advantage of accepting a trusted acquaintance's offer to cook. All his former and still de facto subordinates had reluctantly learned to prepare simple meals for themselves; even Fleki had become adept in making cheese or ham sandwiches, which she could eat half of and keep the other half for emerging from a tripping session.
Eating at home, Kabru had once patiently pointed out to a row of long elven faces, was by far the cheaper option. Their queen, at Mithrun's suggestion, had commuted the remaining sentences of the felons among her former Canaries stationed in the Merini embassy to work contracts. This unprecedented gesture of royal magnanimity acknowledged their contributions to felling the Greater Demon; her bureaucrats, however, had hardly been lavish in their allocation of stipends.
He, while not similarly bound to thriftiness, had amazed his fellow elves by being the first among them to learn, courtesy of the dwarf who'd cooked for the king's old party, how to boil Eastern rice. The young aristocrat from Wa had gifted their embassy a large sack of his island's finest grains, which the queen had graciously permitted them to consume. He found the rice easier than making the buckwheat noodles of that archipelago, which still required him to add a touch of magic to get them to not fall apart when boiled.
Cooking with or for others, Senshi had taught him, made the practice of proper eating and hydration more attractive. It pleased his elves; it also pleased Kabru, which was an outcome entirely satisfactory.
(Your eyebags are fading, Captain, Fleki had unabashedly remarked; your lips are almost kissable now, Lycion had chimed in, making his fellow ex-felons collapse into hoots that drowned out Pattadol's disapproving sigh.)
The other reason concerned how, amidst this fresh start, he'd grown cognizant that, however lacking his sense of desire, he retained the capacity to feel.
He identified the sensations stirring in his heart, when certain people were involved, as related to happiness. They weren't all pleasant. In Kabru's case, sometimes they felt akin to an ache, or an acute awareness of this tall-man's every movement. It reminded him of surveilling a target, observing every detail of its dark curls, the keenness of its improbably azure eyes, the quickness of its smiles. What purpose this surveillance served, he couldn't say.
He couldn't pinpoint, either, when these feelings had become too apparent to disregard, or when they'd surfaced. But he reflected on how, in the depths of the dungeon on this island, being trapped with this man—unlike his subordinates, he had no issue with how tall-men, like their short-lived counterparts, came of age in the blink of an eye—had, in hindsight, been oddly enjoyable; a light in the hollow cycles of urgency and exhaustion.
In the almost half-century of his old life, there had been one other person who'd held his attention in this vein. She remained a memory, bittersweet as a blood orange.
He'd paid his familial home a brief visit before taking up the court's assignment to establish the embassy here. Over a dinner with his elder brother, who'd been officially appointed the successor of the House of Kerensil, a letter, its finely printed envelope stamped with a familiar seal, had been placed next to his plate.
Read it if you like, Mithrun, his brother had said. The lady recently wrote to say that she's given birth to a daughter—last year she married my friend from school, Milsiril's second cousin, do you remember him? Her family sends their regards and congratulations on your new assignment. I've already replied to them on our behalf.
He'd grasped the substance of these words: Everything's fine, no one thinks ill of you, don't worry.
He hadn't been worried; worry had ceased being a factor in his life after the dungeon spat him out. He'd recognized the words were kind, precisely due to their being unnecessary. His lost eye and mutilated ears had ached. A remnant of his self-sabotaging jealousy, perhaps, or another admonishment of how blind he'd previously been to his brother's goodness. How many people in this world, regardless of race, would be able to remain on friendly terms with someone who'd spurned their affections?
But he hesitated to draw any parallel between Kabru and the lady. Even disregarding his elders' prejudices about tall-men and their mayfly ilk, a gulf as large as the lifespans of races cleaved these two: a flower to a sword; silver to sapphire. And what, after all, did he really know about that first ideal, apart from the dreams he'd projected onto her? As sweet and gentle as she'd been, and despite the explicitly professed affections, a veil had seemed drawn between them, keeping him at bay.
How, though, could she have reason to turn so fair a suitor as him down? So he'd convinced himself; so he'd assumed she was merely shy, in much the same way he'd deemed his brother an embarrassment to their family. His parents offering him up for service with the Canaries had dissolved these assumptions into doubts; he'd fed this acidic resentment to the goat-demon, and it had swallowed him and his old life whole, so sweetly and so terribly, every dream morphing into a phantasm that warped into one waking nightmare.
He did remember loving—elusive though the sensation of that word remained—the crescent moon of her smile, so unlike the sunniness of Kabru's own. He'd wanted it to exist only for him. The doppelganger the demon had conjured out of his desires had initially obliged the vainness of this wish, but this phantom, too, had disintegrated.
Unlike the self that had been consumed, he still felt incapable of dreaming. Which meant being unable to yearn. Which implied a lack of vision about the future, at least in this specific case.
Envisioning a future, Kabru had reminded him, was key to his rehabilitation.
If it helps, he'd suggested, you could try remembering it's not only for you, Captain. It's also for everyone who cares about you.
He'd looked at Kabru, who'd come over to help set up his residence on Merini; he'd received a sweeping gesture made towards the rest of the former Canaries, who were variously engaged in highly varying degrees of labor.
That includes me, you know, Kabru had added, in the coaxing tones whose potency remained inexplicable.
Why? he'd briefly considered asking. You don't like elves, do you? You don't trust us.
He'd kept silent. The fact of his own curiosity, sharp as a sting, had startled him. When had he last sought intelligence on another's motivations, or any other aspect of their personal lives? During the years he'd lived with his subordinates, he'd never once thought to ask any of them about anything that hadn't merited a record in their files; this, according to Otta, was one of his best leadership traits.
In all likelihood, what Kabru had told him about acquiring new desires was true. If nothing else, he'd succeeded at cultivating an interest in understanding why others cared about him.
This, as an incipient desire, seemed fine, since it promised to be a goal achievable either by direct questioning or continued observation. Anything more didn't strike him as feasible, particularly where Kabru was concerned. On top of every other practical hurdle, he knew certain communities of tall-men clung to ideas of intercourse far more rigid than those held by elves, who, for their part, could hardly be called broad-minded. But the victims of some tall-men included their own who took lovers of the same sex, or of different races; anyone seen as transgressors of traditions that bore no scrutiny.
He'd heard of such savagery in the towns around Uttaya, in the vicinity of Kabru's old homeland. There could be no point in contesting such beliefs: their blindness often existed in inverse proportion to their basis, making them as iron-clad as they were insubstantial.
His losses and disfigurements had stripped him of illusions about deserving to be with anyone else, whatever their gender or race. It was enough that there were still people who cared about him at all. It was more than enough that he'd come to see he cared about them in return.
One meal at a time, he told himself. There will always be meals, and the possibility of sharing them. As long as you're alive.
⚜
Mithrun, he could see out of the corner of his eye, was endeavoring to peel a large carrot with a paring knife. His host, who'd donned an apron—clearly supplied to him by one of the other elves, most likely Cithis—was carrying out this operation with great deliberation. The faint frown on his face strongly suggested that the carrot was proving insubordinate.
Observing this made Kabru want to laugh, an impulse he prudently suppressed. He'd been pleasantly surprised at Mithrun's offering to assist with dinner preparations even on the condition that no magic could be used to solve any difficulties encountered. Whatever elves usually did in their kitchens, he'd argued, they weren't trying to cook a thawing chimera this time, and it was often simpler to do things by hand.
Mithrun hadn't objected, and he hadn't expected him to. Nonetheless, he felt a certain satisfaction about his company being chosen.
"Is there anything I might help with?" he offered amiably.
Mithrun glanced up, his frown deepening by a sliver, and shook his head. He parried with a smile, holding up his hands in what he hoped Mithrun saw as placatory fashion, and returned to grinding the spices in the mortar. He couldn't stop stealing glances at the carrot peeling process, though, and after several more moments, during which Mithrun's face grew perceptibly steelier, he decided to stage an intervention.
"Please hold still for a bit," he said aloud.
As Mithrun complied, he padded over to the opposite side of the kitchen table and stood behind him. Reaching forward, he carefully adjusted his companion's grip on both the knife and the carrot it was attempting to target. This was easily accomplished, since Mithrun's compact frame slotted itself under his chin, leaving him with a clear view; the elf's pale hands, wiry and callused, obediently shifted position under his own.
"How's this?" he said, after he'd demonstrated a more effective method of removing the carrot's skin.
Mithrun nodded.
He drew a breath. The cloud of hair below his cheek, still shaggy but sleeker than when he'd first seen it, smelled faintly of herbs. Elves tended to be particular about their body cleansers, as he recalled all too well from the various soaps Milsiril had made his young self use. Had Mithrun regained any such inclinations of late? Or did he merely use whatever was easiest to get hold of—
"Are you done?"
He blinked. Mithrun had twisted around to peer up at him, an unreadable light in his good eye. The blunted seam of his left ear peeked out from the hair covering it. Abruptly he realized he was still holding his hands, which he promptly freed, backing away as he did so.
"My apologies," he said, clearing his throat. It wasn't lost on him that he was unsure what exactly he wanted to express regret for, or if he felt any regret at all.
Mithrun wordlessly returned to the carrot. Kabru, shooting him another glance, read a hint of tension in his stance. But things seemed otherwise fine, so he carried on with his own duties.
Spices ground, he used the addition of oil to work the fragrant dust, shaded with orange and brown and red into a paste, half of which he rubbed as a marinade into the large chunks of meat the butcher had obligingly carved up for him. That looked, in his estimation, more or less like what his mother had done, at home as well as in her restaurant.
After washing his hands, he regarded the rest of the vegetables, which brought to his notice that Mithrun—who'd managed to peel all the carrots and hack them into ungainly chunks pushed to one side—was now squinting at the oversized red onion in his hand.
He arrested the chuckle bubbling up in him.
I give up, he said to himself. It makes absolutely no sense, no matter how I try to explain it, but I think he's cute. More than any 186-year old who's basically a military man dealing with a midlife crisis has any business being. My current job involves zero obligation to do things for him, or to see him outside of court business. I'm still wary about long-lived peoples in general, especially elves. And here I am, unable to let this one be. Finding excuses to spend time alone with him. Knowing me, I'll end up giving him a massage again before I go back, or anything else he needs. Curse him. Curse me double. What happened to staying away from unnecessary entanglements? Didn't my tastes use to make sense, at least? Is this some aftereffect of eating nothing but monsters for a whole week?
Damn you, Kuro.
I can smell that elf on you, Kuro had announced to him. The boss one.
They'd been taking a break during one of the study sessions they continued to convene on an infrequent basis; namely, whenever it pleased Mick to free Kuro from their handyman business with at least half a day off where both their schedules aligned. Kuro's common speech was miles beyond what it had been when they'd first started, though it didn't yet allow him to communicate as freely as he did in their mother tongue, which they still used with each other. Neither of them called that region home, anymore, but the rhythms of its speech relaxed them in a way that even the company of their comrades didn't.
The consul came to the palace to meet with the king this morning, he'd patiently replied.
Yeah…but that's not all, eh? I'm telling you, I can smell it.
Smell what?
You like that boss elf. A lot.
Kuro—
Heh, heh. Had no idea that was your type. Better not let Rin find out, or at least one of you's going to get stabbed. Heh.
We fought together, he'd said, striving not to sound defensive. Even if I like him, it's not any different from the way I like everyone in our party.
If you insist, Kuro had snorted. Thing is, I've never smelled you wanting to mate with any of us, you know?
I do not want to mate with him, he'd spluttered, unable to stop the heat creeping into his face. Quit being so…kobold about this, you damn dog! I just find him interesting!
Interesting, huh, Kuro had said, tapping his nose knowingly. Trust me, this fine instrument here says it's more than simple curiosity.
He'd glared daggers; Kuro, tongue lolling out, had snuffled in a way reminiscent of a tall-man cackle.
We're not out west any more, Kabru. You said so yourself, didn't you? People in these parts are much more, li, lib—
Liberal?
That's the word. They're used to people coming from everywhere and everyone thinking and acting different. Mick and I recently met a kobold who's mated with a dwarf, both nice guys, they've settled down near the market—
Wonderful, he'd said, pressing his fingers into his temples. Truly. But we're dropping this. And don't you dare gossip about any of it with the others, Mick included. Please? I'm asking you nicely.
Sure, sure, Kuro had drawled, unpromising slivers of canine peeping through his lazy grin. You got it, chief. Hang in there, seems like you chose a tough one.
What in the world do I expect will happen, he thought, yet again, as he heard himself instruct Mithrun, acting out the relevant gestures across the table, on the finer points of how to peel and chop an onion. What does he think of me, anyway? Another child of the short-lived, except I happen to be useful to him? He always says yes to my suggestions or invitations, but then he never says no to anyone so long as their requests are reasonable, or at least harmless. His being so obliging is a function of having no desires; he doesn't want most things, in general, and he doesn't not want them, either. He doesn't like or dislike people, whatever they think of him. They exist, and that's it. Sometimes I even wonder if he actually likes his Canaries, or if he's just used to having them around as underlings.
And even if it ever became possible for him to like me back, in that way, then what? Even without the racial age gap—maybe I should figure out how to discreetly consult Marcille on that at some point?—it's technically possible this could be seen as compromising my duties to Merini, isn't it? I'm sure Laios won't mind, but Yaad...and Rin, well…
Rrgh.
He shrugged inwardly, and turned his attention to rinsing off the tomatoes on the counter, their plump, glossy skins shading from red to orange with tints of green. He'd deposited the pile of fruits onto his chopping board when Mithrun dropped his knife, emitting a low hiss.
In a flash, he'd arrived at the other side of the table, his hand catching Mithrun's, which had a crimson line seeping across the tip of its index finger.
Grasping at what Holm had taught him, he drew a long breath and focused on the elementals of the particles that made up Mithrun's blood and skin, including those on the knife's blade. Bit by bit, he coaxed every one to return to their original place, entreating them back to wholeness.
It seemed to be working. He could feel the tendrils of intention that carried his body's energy coalesce around the finger in his grip, and he concentrated doggedly, until he sensed no further movements on the receiving end of his efforts.
When he opened his eyes, the fingertip showed no trace of injury, and he sagged in relief.
"Gnome healing magic," Mithrun said, sounding faintly impressed.
"That's all I can manage," he said, peering cautiously at the finger as he gingerly turned it back and forth.
"You did well," Mithrun pointed out. "I appreciate the assistance. But earlier you said magic wasn't allowed during cooking."
"Injuries are a key exception. Especially yours."
Mithrun cocked his head. "Why?"
"For one thing, it probably counts as a diplomatic incident, and even if it doesn't, Pattadol and the rest would string me up if they found out you hurt yourself on my watch. Anyway, I—I don't want to see you injured."
"Why?"
He blinked at the cutting insistence of the question.
"Captain?"
Mithrun had trained his gaze onto him. Its unyielding weight put him at a loss, but he knew they weren't going to move on until he answered.
"Because I care about you, of course," he ventured, judging this to be a safe level of honesty.
"Explain 'of course,'" Mithrun said flatly. "Do you have reason to care about me beyond your diplomatic duties? How does it benefit you?"
"Er. I'm not sure it does, to be honest. I just want to."
"Which is even more unclear. Why would that be, if it doesn't benefit you?"
"Hang on, please," he said, feeling his forehead twinge. "On second thought, 'benefit' isn't the right word here. Look…you do know that saying you 'care' expresses concern for the well-being of something, or someone? It doesn't involve any calculation of personal advantage. Is that an acceptable answer?"
Mithrun crossed his arms, glancing down with pursed lips. When he looked up again, Kabru blinked; had he ever seen this particular elf look so vulnerable before?
"Am I—important to you?"
He let out the breath he'd been holding, a tiny but persistent light going off in his head.
"Mithrun," he began, the elvish syllables tingling on his tongue. He couldn't recall when he'd last invoked his name, instead of a title. He reserved Consul for official occasions. His continued use of Captain, like the embassy's elves, was out of habit; he understood it as a privilege, tacitly granted, that acknowledged his particular rapport with their leader.
"Why are you asking so many questions about how I feel? From all I've seen, you aren't usually interested in opinions, especially not other people's."
"I require clarification."
"What for, though? We're not at work now. Pattadol would be thrilled if you paid this much interest to our meetings with Laios."
Mithrun opened his mouth, paused, and shut it, the scowl below his furrowed brows a rare display of displeasure.
Kabru braced himself.
"If I might be so bold—could it be that, in fact...you care about me, too? Beyond your diplomatic duties."
He wasn't sure who, of them both, was more stunned that he'd actually deployed this verbal ruse. Its effect, however, was obvious. Mithrun froze; equally suddenly, he hunched over, arms crossed taut over his chest, and his expression stricken. He seemed utterly disarmed, and Kabru leaned into a flare of instinct that told him to advance.
On folding Mithrun's slender, sinewy frame into an embrace, he met no resistance. Duly emboldened, he tucked the silvery head under his chin and began rubbing in long, sweeping strokes between the shoulder blades underneath it. Mithrun's hands, cold and hard, crept up the front of his shirt, clenching fistfuls of fabric. A face butted into his chest; a hot tickle of breath fell on the skin exposed by the V-neck of his shirt. He was sorry when Mithrun pulled back.
The light in his head was glowing. Nothing was certain, not yet. But this was already far more of a response than he'd dared to expect.
"I don't know what to do about you," Mithrun said, every word brittle with effort. His eyes were fixed on the floor. "I don't know how to fix this problem."
Kabru laughed softly. "Am I a problem? I'm honored, but really, it's not that complicated. I, well—I like you. That's all."
He noted how Mithrun stiffened; he caught the latter's shoulders in his hands, keeping his grip gentle.
"I like you," he said again, lingering over each word, as if it was being released. "A lot. That's all you need to know. You don't have to do anything about it, either. But—if you decide, in time, that you like me too, I…I'd be happy if you told me. Would that be all right?"
The sheer befuddlement creasing Mithrun's features, by itself, was reward enough; in the next moment, however, the remnants of his amusement turned to butterflies as Mithrun nodded, slowly and seriously.
"Thank you, Captain," he said, clearing his throat, and giving Mithrun's shoulders a light squeeze. "Well—let's keep cooking? Don't know about you, but I'm starting to get hungry."