Work Text:
“Hey,” Therion holds out the grooming brushes. “Cleaned ‘em as best as I could. By that, I mean the fur’s on the ground and Linde’s eating it.”
“‘Tis fine. The birds maken use of fur for their nests, and Linde shall learneth her lesson,” H’aanit shakes her head, motioning toward her pack. “Setten them there.”
Either she trusts him with her belongings, or he knows she would gut him if he attempted his little stunt again. When he tried to steal from her pack, the arrow grazed his fingertips in warning. Not his brightest moment.
That was a past time, when they were outsiders among the rest - suspicious of others and of each other. Even then, they weren’t so different.
“That’s new,” he glances over her shoulder. Burlap bags of powder line the table alongside cream, cow’s butter, and chicken eggs. Chunks of cinnamon sticks rest in a stone mortar and pestle. The woven basket of apples, however, catches his attention - a vivid display among the rest. Meanwhile, H’aanit mixes a pale yellow dough in a wooden bowl.
“I hath browsen the markets with Tressa for ingredients. She striken many bargains before the sun’s peak, and when she spoketh of a particular sweet, I sought to tryen mine hand,” she recounts, spooning one of the white powders into the bowl.
Therion examines their wares with a sharp eye. “She knows her stuff. No flaws in sight.”
“So thou art impressed enough to helpen with mine project?”
“I never said that-”
He catches the flying object by instinct - a towel this time.
“Wonderful! Cleanen thine hands and letten us begin.”
“Am I your lab rat now?” he chides, wiping his hands anyway.
“Such wouldst leanen toward Cyrus’ interests. ‘Tis thy choice.”
The last time Therion ‘volunteered’ for one of his experiments, he damn near lost his hair from a poorly-aimed fireball. It’s an easy choice.
Question is, why does she toss things at him to make him work?
He stares at the apples again.
And why does he let her?
“You know I’m only doing this for the food.”
“‘Tis a reason humans doeth anything, I hath learned,” she shrugs, cracking an egg over her bowl before stirring again.
He gives a sideways glance. “Fair enough. So what’s it gonna be?”
“Thou art staring at them with thy doe eyes,” she smirks at the resulting glare, though not one of malice.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” he makes room at the table for the apples.
“Tressa hath described the confection as one with ‘diced apple sauce’ and thin apple slices on top. Beneath them lieth a golden crust. Understandest her words in full, I didst not. Bread is mine specialty, yet she hath suggested a more delicate sweet.”
Therion cleans his spare knife and arranges the fruit - half diced, half sliced. If Tressa blabbered on, it was probably decent. The fact that H’aanit wants to recreate it says enough.
He finishes dicing half of the apples when the table shakes. H’aanit’s pounding cinnamon sticks into oblivion.
“Not like you to be stressed.”
“I am not,” A spoon falls to the ground.
“Sure.”
H’aanit sighs, setting down her pestle. “I ponderen Master’s condition, if he canst even feelen in his state. I oft baken to quelleth mine anxieties, but they aren strong this day.”
Therion waits for her to continue.
“I hath asketh Cyrus of his knowledge, but he hath admitten the lack of scholarly works. Nary a human returneth to tellen the tale.”
“Must be tough,” his sympathy is genuine. “Sounds like the two of you were close.”
“Aye. Master hath raised me since I was a babe. Though we oft disagree, he hath carven a place in his heart for me. ‘Tis not an easy feat, I hath learned.”
Therion hums in agreement. The space he’d carved years ago remains empty, and he still carries his parting gift.
“Better to focus on the present so you can get him back. Don’t know why I’m telling you not to brood though.”
“I appreciate thy words nonetheless,” H’aanit chuckles, her pestle hitting mortar once more. “The younglings of mine village enjoyen sweets, as do our guests. Food canst bringen others together. ‘Tis a strange power.”
“Hm,” he moves the diced apples into a separate bowl before handing it to H’aanit. Adding butter, water, sugar, and cinnamon, she transfers the mixture to the pot beside an open flame.
“Food’s a tricky subject,” he muses, peeling an apple in his hand. “More of a hassle than anything, and hard to enjoy when you’re on the run.”
“Thou speakest of thievery?”
“Yeah. There lies the problem,” he huffs. “Can’t eat without making leaves, can’t make leaves without eating. Cruel world we live in.”
“‘Tis sad, indeed,” she shakes her head. “I, too, oft suffered from hunger in mine youth. Despite his skill with the bow, Master lacketh sense with his leaves. I hath even skipped meals for Linde’s sake.‘Twas not for her company during the long months, I fear what wouldst hath becomen of me.”
“You too, huh,” he empathizes, and his respect for her grows.
“And now you spoil her rotten?”
She points with a coated spoon of apple and cinnamon. “Indeed.”
“It’s nice to have someone by your side,” his thoughts flit for a moment until Linde approaches. She sniffs the ground for fallen treats before butting her head against Therion. “‘Specially when it’s you, isn’t that right?”
Linde makes a noise in agreement, nuzzling his leg.
“She groweth quite fond of thee,” H’aanit remarks as she stirs the pot over the fire. The mixture bubbles, and the light cinnamon scent wafts toward her nose. It’s the little things that ease her mind. With the apples cooked to her liking, she retrieves the pan. Rolling out the dough, H’aanit drapes it over and presses it flush against the metal. She scrapes out every drop of filling, spreads it throughout the dough, and exhales. All in a day’s work for her.
Linde’s almost too fond as she stands on her hind legs to inspect Therion’s work. Get your own, H’aanit hears. As the leopard ambles away (not without swatting him with her tail), she notes a peculiar habit.
“Thou cutten with thine opposite hand?” And quite well, too.
“Mm-hm,” he prepares another apple, tossing the occasional slice for Linde to catch. To the untrained eye, his dexterity is impressive, but he knows better.
With H’aanit’s work done, Therion tosses a few slices into the pan and realizes he has standards. He fixes his mistake, shoos away a nosy Linde, and arranges them to look a little more pleasing.
“I’m calling it a flower,” Therion shrugs at his handiwork. What starts as a petal becomes askew as they follow what seems like a spiral pattern.
“They sayeth a flower’s beauty lieth in its flaws,” H’aanit also shrugs, taking it in her hands. “The tavern keeper hath allowen me to borrowen his oven. If thou will excusen me.”
Therion leaves her to the task, noting the cinnamon scent in the air. It’s nice. Linde nuzzling his leg is also nice. Linde attempting to knock over the eggs is not as nice, and he scrambles.
Massaging the knots in her shoulders, H’aanit returns with a stack of wooden bowls and forks. Dropping them onto the table, she promptly seats herself beneath the nearest tree.
“I needeth a rest.”
And she falls asleep. Just like that. Linde stares at her companion with curious eyes.
“That always happen?” Therion gestures. Linde swishes her tail.
When H’aanit awakes, Linde greets her with a lick of her cheek. In front of her stands Therion, baked tart in hand.
“Figured you could use the sleep. The tavern keeper stared at me until he saw Linde peeking through a window though.”
Crooked apples aside, the tart is crisp and golden in his hands. She admires their hard work with a grin.
When he sets the tart down, she cuts it into eight equal pieces with renewed energy. Placing them into their own bowls, she hands one to Therion, grin and all.
“Upon thee, I bestoweth the honors.”
“Lucky me,” Therion quips, taking a small bite of the tart.
It shuts him up. The silence tests even H’aanit’s patience, and her grin drops. Gods, was it terrible? She can’t blame Therion, and she recalled only half of Tressa’s whirlwind of words. Perhaps if-
The thoughts stop. There it is.
That elusive smile.
“... It’s good,” his eyes close as he sets his fork down. “Been a while since I’ve had something like this.”
He ponders with a nostalgic expression. “When I was young, my mother took me to a bakery. I’d only seen those pastries through a window. We didn’t have much, but she bought me a slice for ‘being a good kid’. Best thing I’ve ever had.”
He lets out a sigh.
“Don’t know if she’d think the same if she were still here.”
After caring for pieces of Therion’s heart, prickly yet warm, the silence is familiar. H’aanit still mulls over her words. In the past, she offered none. Her tongue is more stone than silver, yet they both shared a liking for the concise.
“Thou didst what thou hath needed to survive. ‘Tis all one canst do.”
“Yeah...” Therion fiddles with the end of his scarf. “My childhood wasn’t great, but that was one of the happier times. Part of me’s been trying to find that feeling again.”
He glances at the tart, then at H’aanit.
“Think I’m closer to my goal.”
“Thou art generous with thy praise,” H’aanit’s gaze is warm. “‘Tis no trouble to preparen more sweets if they wouldst helpen thee. Perhaps other kinds?”
Therion’s frown concerns her, but her heart eases when he speaks.
“...You know, I haven’t thought about what else I like.”
“‘Tis the time to findest out, wouldst thou not agree?”
Genuine surprise colors his face.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense,” she waves for emphasis. “Consideren the deed as mine thanks for sharing thine heart.”
It takes a beat, but he sees through her technique. Red starts to tint his cheeks, and his heart feels light.
“I feel like this happened before,” he masks a smile beneath his scarf.
“And mine thanks shall continue until thou needest not question it. ‘Tis mine hope.” H’aanit leaves it at that, savoring her own slice of apple tart.
When the moon rises, one emptied bowl joins the other seven.
It’s his hope, too.
Her efforts move beyond apples and sweets. From salads to hearty stews, H’aanit gauges Therion’s preference with each new dish. She’s used to a neutral face. Yet, when he sets his utensil down and smiles, it’s a victory unmatched.
When she lacks the words, she will reach him with food from the heart.