archiving older fic: All the Comforts
Mar. 2nd, 2002 07:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve11Summary: There's aramenth growing on the other side of the wall.
Author Notes: Thank you to Pene and Makiko for the beta.
Story Notes: Response to the peripheral character challenge. Spoilers for Different Destinations.
All the Comforts
-----------------
There's aramenth growing on the other side of the wall. I haven't seen it, but by Tora, I smell it-- that crisp, clean, open-your-eyes scent-- every time I go up on the battlement. The Jacaceans must have imported it from a Sebacean colony; aramenth is easy to transplant and grows like a mad weed in dry, shady places. It would be the perfect thing to cool down my Rokta yogurt stew, but I'd have to leave the compound to pick it. And that would mean slaughter at the hands of the Venek Horde.
Frell. Don't think about that; stir the stew instead, make sure you don't drop the spoon into the pot. That's it. Coax the mixture from the seams at the bottom with a twist of the wrist, like Aunt Petra showed you. This pot is particularly tricky; it's bent in one spot and the starch will stick there if you're not careful.
I wonder if the nurses know about the aramenth. Mother used it in all her medicinal rubs. "Calms the nerves," she'd said. Maybe it would still the shakes in my hands. Not like that would help in combat; I'm a terrible shot on my good days, and Officer Tarn likes my recipes better than my aim.
Liked. Officer Tarn is dead. So stir the stew; you can't get to the aramenth anyway. It's on the other side of the wall.
But I could make a tea of it too, warm to wake you up with the dawn, and with a bite that feels like Argrave ice going down your throat. Might be enough to get rid of the sour taste in my mouth, spark some life into the nurses' dull, hooded eyes.
Might be enough to cover the tang of sirella powder. If it came to that, we could die quietly without even tasting death. Give some to that wispy child and send her to bed. Then just sit against the wall with a steaming mug and watch the stars slowly fade.
Ah, there you go, it's sticking to the bottom and the whole thing is going to burn. Take it off the heat. There now, give it a taste. You've got cook's hands, so just dip the tip of a finger into the mix.
I never believed Aunt Petra when she said she didn't feel the heat in her fingertips anymore, but it's true. "You can get used to anything if you do it long enough," she said. Of course, Aunt Petra also told stories of Sebaceans who conditioned their whole bodies against heat delirium and went away to live on desert planets. "They just stood there, heat coming off the sand in waves... it'd send any normal person into the Living Death in microts."
They laughed at that one in the barracks. Know your boundaries and your weaknesses because your enemy surely will, that's what soldiers like Kanla are taught from birth. They're raised on military tactics, not provincial myths. So practical. So now Kanla's dead, Kanla who lived on cold soup and corran, and his only weakness was getting in the way of a Venek with a club. Officer Sun and her Luxan mercenary bury the dead in perfectly straight lines, and all I do is stare at the mounds and think of Kanla's corran sitting uselessly inside his dead stomach.
The stew. It's burning your fingertips, enough to give even you a blister. Blow on it and give it a taste, stop thinking about soldiers-- a long black braid so like Mother's on someone so utterly different, the way the traitor Crichton looks at you-- like you're cooking your own last meal.
Tora, that's got a bite to it. And it's burned; the smoky taste says you can't even get the cooking down right. Some soldier. Aramenth would soothe it over, but it might as well be growing on Tora's nose for all anyone can reach it.
Frelling vine, has to be on the wrong side of the frelling wall. The stew will just have to stay as is, too spicy and too burnt. Too hot for this small space and the slow-simmering mix of dust, sweat, and death. I should have known better. It was the wrong thing to try in the first place, no matter what ingredients were available. Veneks, Jacaceans, Peacekeepers -- in the end, it all boils down to a trail of stupid decisions and one useless cook.
One frelling useless cook who can't just stand at the stove while Officer Sun brandishes the surrender beacon. Maybe it's a soldier's practicality, or maybe I'm sick of doing nothing but feeding corpses. I don't know. Better me than you, I tell her, and the reasons don't matter anymore.
I grasp the beacon in my blistered hand, but there is no pain. On the battlement the air is clear.
"You're a real hero," she calls.
"Heroes always get killed," I call back. A breeze sends the crisp scent of aramenth rushing along the walk. I take a deep breath, let it fill me up. Maybe I'll be able to pick some a little later. After all, I should be able to see it finally, when I look over the wall.
"I'll be fine."
------------------
Author Notes: Thank you to Pene and Makiko for the beta.
Story Notes: Response to the peripheral character challenge. Spoilers for Different Destinations.
All the Comforts
-----------------
There's aramenth growing on the other side of the wall. I haven't seen it, but by Tora, I smell it-- that crisp, clean, open-your-eyes scent-- every time I go up on the battlement. The Jacaceans must have imported it from a Sebacean colony; aramenth is easy to transplant and grows like a mad weed in dry, shady places. It would be the perfect thing to cool down my Rokta yogurt stew, but I'd have to leave the compound to pick it. And that would mean slaughter at the hands of the Venek Horde.
Frell. Don't think about that; stir the stew instead, make sure you don't drop the spoon into the pot. That's it. Coax the mixture from the seams at the bottom with a twist of the wrist, like Aunt Petra showed you. This pot is particularly tricky; it's bent in one spot and the starch will stick there if you're not careful.
I wonder if the nurses know about the aramenth. Mother used it in all her medicinal rubs. "Calms the nerves," she'd said. Maybe it would still the shakes in my hands. Not like that would help in combat; I'm a terrible shot on my good days, and Officer Tarn likes my recipes better than my aim.
Liked. Officer Tarn is dead. So stir the stew; you can't get to the aramenth anyway. It's on the other side of the wall.
But I could make a tea of it too, warm to wake you up with the dawn, and with a bite that feels like Argrave ice going down your throat. Might be enough to get rid of the sour taste in my mouth, spark some life into the nurses' dull, hooded eyes.
Might be enough to cover the tang of sirella powder. If it came to that, we could die quietly without even tasting death. Give some to that wispy child and send her to bed. Then just sit against the wall with a steaming mug and watch the stars slowly fade.
Ah, there you go, it's sticking to the bottom and the whole thing is going to burn. Take it off the heat. There now, give it a taste. You've got cook's hands, so just dip the tip of a finger into the mix.
I never believed Aunt Petra when she said she didn't feel the heat in her fingertips anymore, but it's true. "You can get used to anything if you do it long enough," she said. Of course, Aunt Petra also told stories of Sebaceans who conditioned their whole bodies against heat delirium and went away to live on desert planets. "They just stood there, heat coming off the sand in waves... it'd send any normal person into the Living Death in microts."
They laughed at that one in the barracks. Know your boundaries and your weaknesses because your enemy surely will, that's what soldiers like Kanla are taught from birth. They're raised on military tactics, not provincial myths. So practical. So now Kanla's dead, Kanla who lived on cold soup and corran, and his only weakness was getting in the way of a Venek with a club. Officer Sun and her Luxan mercenary bury the dead in perfectly straight lines, and all I do is stare at the mounds and think of Kanla's corran sitting uselessly inside his dead stomach.
The stew. It's burning your fingertips, enough to give even you a blister. Blow on it and give it a taste, stop thinking about soldiers-- a long black braid so like Mother's on someone so utterly different, the way the traitor Crichton looks at you-- like you're cooking your own last meal.
Tora, that's got a bite to it. And it's burned; the smoky taste says you can't even get the cooking down right. Some soldier. Aramenth would soothe it over, but it might as well be growing on Tora's nose for all anyone can reach it.
Frelling vine, has to be on the wrong side of the frelling wall. The stew will just have to stay as is, too spicy and too burnt. Too hot for this small space and the slow-simmering mix of dust, sweat, and death. I should have known better. It was the wrong thing to try in the first place, no matter what ingredients were available. Veneks, Jacaceans, Peacekeepers -- in the end, it all boils down to a trail of stupid decisions and one useless cook.
One frelling useless cook who can't just stand at the stove while Officer Sun brandishes the surrender beacon. Maybe it's a soldier's practicality, or maybe I'm sick of doing nothing but feeding corpses. I don't know. Better me than you, I tell her, and the reasons don't matter anymore.
I grasp the beacon in my blistered hand, but there is no pain. On the battlement the air is clear.
"You're a real hero," she calls.
"Heroes always get killed," I call back. A breeze sends the crisp scent of aramenth rushing along the walk. I take a deep breath, let it fill me up. Maybe I'll be able to pick some a little later. After all, I should be able to see it finally, when I look over the wall.
"I'll be fine."
------------------
