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In terms of annoying Sankta, Flamebringer had a list. The highest on that list was none other than ‘Ezell’ – he went by Enforcer, but it didn’t take long to learn his name from others who knew it. Below him was ‘Insider’ – who actually made an effort to use his codename instead of his given one – and below both of them was that emo kid who thought he was too good for guns. Flamebringer didn’t have the motivation to learn or care what that kid’s name was, because he was frankly just a kid going through a phase. Surely he’d crawl back to the ‘holy city’ like all of them did.
The lowest on this list, which is to say, the only halo-haver that Flamebringer felt any kind of respect for was the one who was acknowledged as a saint recently. How the fuck that happened was beyond him, but Federico’s combat skills were certainly something Laterano ought to proud of. That alone wasn’t exactly why Flamebringer didn’t mind him, the main reason was that he was the only of his people who felt small talk to be entirely unnecessary. He did his job and that was that, and frankly that was the best Flamebringer could hope for.
So color him amazed when Federico walked up to him in a somewhat burned uniform and purple flower tucked into a pocket, asking directly “Is there a way for me to procure Kazdelian herbs and spices?”
After standing in silence for about a minute, Flamebringer asked “Since when do you—?” before cutting himself off, and changing the question, “You want to cook something?”
“Yes, ‘herb pizzelle’, it’s a dish from Sanctilaminium Ambrosii”, Federico explains in an even tone, but the way his wings twitch give a strange note to the conversation.
Blinking slowly, Flamebringer said to him “I’ve never heard of it before, sounds like a Lateran thing–”
“It is, but it isn’t,” Federico answered abruptly, “There were a population of Sarkaz refugees that lived there, and it’s a natural course of action that cultures would exchange from close proximity. Herb pizzelle uses a Lateran recipe and Kazdelian herbs and spices, and I’d like to remake it”
It wasn’t uncommon for Federico to make people question things in a conversation, but that was usually because of his odd grasp of social cues. Of which Flamebringer didn’t find that much of a bother in the few conversations they did end up holding – since they were usually business oriented. No, the questions Flamebringer had were more to do with this ‘Sanctilaminium Ambrosii’ place once having Sarkaz refugees. What was this place and where did those people go? And why re-make a dish? Was there no written recipe?
“If it is a bother to you I will go else–” Federico started before getting cut off.
“No— well, I have no idea what you want me to get in the first place, ‘Kazdelian herbs’ is about as useful as ‘flower with red petals’ in terms of describing something” Flamebringer told him, still reeling from the staggering number of questions in his head.
“I see, I should have asked about that then” Federico looked down, his expression the same as before, but there was a certain heaviness that exuded from him. Maybe it was the way his halo hung? There was a general look of defeat that was simply uncharacteristic of the man.
“Is it possible to–” ask again, but his answer was a slow shake of the head. “I see then, well I don’t think I’d be much help… but, you might want to speak with Paprika. She grew up in Columbia, but she knows more traditional recipes and ingredients than I do.”
Somehow, those words were enough to make Federico look up, an uncharacteristic spark in his eyes as he nodded and walked away. Perhaps Flamebringer could warn Paprika of the storm heading her way, but was that really his problem?
Though a few steps into the greenhouse, he had to wonder to himself, what is a pizzelle?
***
Paprika was on her way to the cafeteria when the Saint of Laterano walked up to her. While she had known this man was on the same ship as her, she had never come across him before. He seemed like one of those people she would never meet, be it on a mission or just on the ship. Because really, the likelihood of meeting the Saint in general seemed unimaginable. Yet here he was asking “Are you Operator Paprika?”
Simply nodding slowly, unsure if she should be in awe or afraid. The rumors around this guy were intimidating to say the least… According to some, he was an antisocial robot, from others he was a killing machine. The last thing she expected was to be asked about making cookies.
“What herbs to use…” she pondered the question a moment, before thinking aloud “I know it's not Kazdelian, but rosemary would likely taste good. Anise could work too…”
Putting together a list, he promised to meet her in the kitchens later after he had gotten permission to use it. Still flabbergasted that the Saint of Laterano wanted to make cookies with her, she nodded once again and gave him a way to contact her later.
***
That evening, Flamebringer stood in Rhodes’ kitchen, still confused to how he got there. Not the walking part, he knew how to get around the land ship. But moreso, why was he here?
The dumb angel and Paprika were going over recipes, with the plan to make a control Lateran Pizzelle, before a series of different tests with various herbs. Two twin librei had arrived from Laterano and were playing in the corner, apparently they would be the taste testers, and Vermeil was unfortunately put in charge of keeping the kids busy — a task that seemed to be sapping her energy. And then there was Flamebringer, standing in the kitchen with an apron on, with no clue what to do.
If he had to put a skill last in his general abilities, it would be cooking. Making food edible? He could do that with a campfire. Making it taste good? Unlikely. There was a reason why he always bought his meals on the land ship.
As testament to his lack of knowledge, he found out that his assumption that pizzelle was anything like pizza to be completely wrong. It was actually a kind of waffle-cookie that was made with a fancy looking press. Which, of course, wasn’t available at Rhodes, so the two chefs made do with the waffle iron.
It was an odd experience being invited to mostly just stare, confused, as the others worked. He considered going to help Vermeil, but knowing how Laterano was he doubted these kids would want to spend any time with him. So instead he decided to pull Federico aside and ask “Why am I here?”
Usually, Federico would answer. And usually, when he did so, it would be obvious. Or, at the very least said so confidently that Flamebringer didn’t really care to change the angel’s mind. He was a logical man after all. But this time, he stood there, wings making some kind of buzzing sound instead of an answer.
“Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird lately”
“I believe I need to go see the medical wing soon, something has been wrong for a while and I believe that has been her doing…”
Oh. Personal stuff. Flamebringer considered himself about as good at dealing with that as he was at cooking.
“By her do you mean…” Flamebringer had no idea who he was referring to but pretended that he did.
“Arthuria, she showed up at the Sanctum.” Those words held a weight that Flamebringer didn’t comprehend and to some degree didn’t care to.
“And she’s been making you feel weird… how?”
Another uncharacteristic pause, as if Federico wasn’t sure of anything. “She was there with me… He died, questioning why the world is as it is. I couldn’t move to stop him. I couldn’t stop her. I…”
Trauma, okay. Makes sense.
“Watching someone take their own life in front of you can be a lot for the brain to handle” Flamebringer put it in the most logical sounding way he could so Federico could understand, but he couldn’t tell if those words helped.
“It’s never done this before” Fedeirco’s stare looking up at him, far from blank, now seeming to be characterized by worry.
Yeah, well it’s your brain so how am I supposed to know how it works? Flamebringer didn’t think saying those words out loud would help, so he changed the subject. Slightly.
“You got this recipe from the guy who died, right?” A nod confirmed him, “so just worry about the will”
“He didn’t leave one”
“Oh?” Now this was very strange.
“He didn’t leave one, yet his death led to the very distinct feeling of ‘failure’ – something I had understood once to be a condition rather than a feeling until the Doctor explained it to me– which Kal’tsit said I must remedy on my own terms… so I suppose I forced a will onto him.” How fascinating that while his tone remained even, his volume became lowered when sharing something so vulnerable.
“So that’s why you're baking?”
“I tried to save that flower too, though it’s been met with criticism– To paraphrase: ‘Why keep a burnt flower that looks half dead?’ to which I cannot easily form an answer. The best I can muster, would be another question: ‘Why is it not worth it to try?’ As there is no reason a flower ought to die just because it doesn’t meet arbitrary standards.”
Something about that rant led Flamebringer to laugh, albeit unintentionally. Was that the flower in his pocket from earlier? It certainly looked worse for wear. It wasn’t hard to believe that most gardeners wouldn’t have given it a chance– the purpose of the hobby was to cultivate the strongest or most stunning plants you could.
Yet Federico didn’t care about that, he cared about this flower. Something about it was important to him, and it didn’t make sense.
It was like that day Ezell told Flamebringer off for pruning his roses, arguing that the plant was not overgrown but ‘had not grown evenly from a lack of sunlight’ – which was utter nonsense. The kind of softness that seemed to believe a plant was being abused from what was basically a haircut. But that was stupidity, this was different.
So what was so important about this flower?
“Why are you laughing?” – Flamebringer had never thought a day would come when Federico would look disturbed, he wished he could’ve gotten a picture of it.
Calming himself down, he asked in total seriousness “The flower, did you think it looked beautiful?”
“I… don’t know?”
“What does it mean to you?”
“... It was the only one that survived”
“Then it’s resilient, a strong flower that holds on when the others give up”
“I don’t believe flowers have a will–”
“That’s not what’s important, idiot. You saw it holding on to life while others threw theirs away, and consciously or not you saw beauty in that.” Flamberinger had the urge to flick the other’s forehead, but decided not to since it was unclear what was an acceptable interaction with the Saint.
With those words, Federico stood in contemplative silence for a moment before asking the man in front of him “What do you think of perfection?”
First a snort, then a smug smile crossed Flamebringer’s lips as he honestly answered “It’s bullshit, of course”
While that answer loaded, the door to the pantry creaked open, Paprika and Vermeil peaking their heads inside.
“You ever heard of privacy?” Flamebringer taunted the girls.
Federico turned to them, telling the girls he had finished his conversation and could return to the task at hand. As the three left to go back to cooking, Flamebringer sat on a box in the storage container wondering why he couldn’t just leave– be it earlier or now, after finding out there was really no reason for him to be here other than Federico just wanted it that way.
Wait. What?
***
Back in the kitchen proper, Flamebringer once again watched the others bake. The Saint of Laterano, a man whomst he had seen many a time soaked in blood and gore from their missions, groomed to perfection at any other time, was there in front of him with his sleeves rolled up and partially covered in flour. The children were too, Vermeil was trying to wash them up at the sink, so clearly there was an accident of sorts.
Watching closer at how not the Saint but how the man moved, he seemed oddly natural in the kitchen. Unlike Paprika who was regularly referring back to the recipe book, he seemed to know it off the top of his head. It was a reminder of that time he overheard the pipsqueak saying he felt ashamed for ‘only knowing twenty five deserts’, apparently this much was to be expected of citizens? Weird. Yet it was not as though he could look away.
Was it normal to stare at a sankta mixing portions of flour into the wet part of the batter for this long? For Flamebringer, certainly not, but he didn’t feel like looking away. He couldn’t look away. Not until a little thing threw itself at his legs.
Looking down, it was the boy of the two twins, hugging him tightly. Before he could get the kid off, his sister saw the two of them, gasped, and ran over to hug Flamebringer’s other leg. After Vermeil had turned off the sink, she gave an evil grin in his general direction before finding a nice place to sit and watch someone else handle the kids.
The little girl looked up at him, and said with a smile “You look just like Mama!”
Huh?
“I’m Erendel!” the boy said, and his sister was quick to follow with “And I’m Estara!”
“It’s… Flamebringer…” These kids were really something, and did they really come from Laterano?
“Remember to give Senior Flamebringer space to move” Federico’s voice could be heard from behind, and miraculously the kids listened to him.
“Okayyy” they said in unison while taking their hands off his legs.
While the scene was still surreal, he had enough sense to bend down to the kids level and ask “Are you really from Laterano?”
“Kind of? We’re from Ambrosii” Erendel answered, “It’s part of Laterano, but very different from the Holy City”
“Yeah, it was crumblier and had more flowers and less mean people,” Estara continued.
Mean people?
“I would like to apologize for the people who are unwilling to acknowledge your family” Federico spoke back, Flamebringer noticed the man was still at work with the batter.
“Don’t apologize for them! They need to do it themselves once they realize that they’re wrong” Estara countered, “And it's not your fault they’re like that awayway” she muttered under her breath.
“Hey, um,” oh no, what was one supposed to do with kids? “Do you want to like, draw or something?” there were crayons over where Vermeil was sitting, and that alone made her start to death glare him from afar.
“YEAH!” both called out, and soon enough the three were at the table drawing relatively calmly.
Estara was quick to show a family picture of her, Erendel, and a tall sarkaz woman they called Mama. They drew other people too, a deer with flowers they called Clement, two angel girls holding hands… that got ‘corrected’ by Erendel with red crayon on one girl and black horns and tail on the other, and a man who looked oddly familiar even in messy crayon drawings.
“Is that… Holst?” he asked, and the kids looked at him confused.
“His name is Gerald,” Federico answered as he put a plate of cooled cookies onto the table, “he was a simple hunter”
… It was a crayon drawing, it was entirely possible he mistaken this man as someone else. And if he didn’t? Well, it didn’t matter. Not when he could steal a cookie from the pile.
***
By the time Paprika and Federico had finished cooking, most of the cookies had already been eaten. Based on what the twins had to say, the closest that came to the herb pizzelle they were familiar with was the trial with Burdenroot… but it tasted a little off to them. Not that the kids had a way to describe what that off-ness was, or what they had remembered their Mama using in the kitchen. The recipe might be lost to time, but that didn’t leave the group’s time entirely wasted.
In Federico’s opinion, Paprika was a much better chef than she gave herself credit for. With the right training she could rival most Sankta her own age in the kitchen, having only three hours to work with and coming up with half a dozen new recipes– none of which were duds. Even if they hadn’t found the Ambrosii herb pizzelle, they had found something just as good within the kitchen of Rhodes Island.