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Estinien didn’t mind aetherite travel. It rarely made him ill, it was swift and sure, and the cost was more than made up for by the convenience. But there were certain effects of instantaneously traveling from one side of the star to the other that were highly inconvenient. Namely, despite the fact that they’d been abed for bells by now, his body remained convinced that it was merely late evening, and therefore had seen no reason to allow him to sleep.
He’d spent the night lying as still as possible so as not to disturb the man in his arms, who yet slept soundly. It wasn’t a bad way to spend a night, all told. But he tired of stillness, a restless urge to get up — to wander, to pace, to do something! — filling him as he lay there in bed. It frustrated him.
Some time after the fourth bell rang out across the city, Aymeric’s bedroom door swung open to admit his manservant, no doubt here to see to the fire. As he finished his task and shuffled back out of the room, Estinien found himself envying the daily work that needed doing before the day could begin. It was a familiar, if distant, rhythm from his own childhood. The rising, the tending to the livestock, the — oh. Estinien’s breath caught as he had an idea. Yes, he could certainly manage that.
He pressed against Aymeric’s back, freeing his arm from beneath his love, who didn’t wake, only letting out a sleepy sigh as Estinien settled him back against the pillow. He climbed over Aymeric and out of the bed, pausing only to retrieve his trousers from where he’d cast them onto the floor the night before. With his modesty thus restored — the most important part, at least — he hurried from the room, casting his gaze back and forth in the upstairs hall.
There was no sign of the servant, making his way through the manor with that little candlestick of his. This was of little surprise, as the man had done this work for many decades and had long-since mastered the art of moving swiftly from one task to the next. Well, it would avail him little to search the entire manor for the man. It would be more efficient to simply begin, as surely they’d eventually meet in the course of things.
Estinien’s bare feet moved near-silently through the dark halls of Borel Manor, making his way first to the staircase and then downstairs, through the back hall to the kitchen. It was currently empty, though a fire burned in the hearth and a wheeled cauldron of snow had been brought inside to melt, so the man had been here, even if he was nowhere to be seen at the moment.
Leaning against the counter, Estinien looked around the kitchen for inspiration. Were it him, he’d take a slab of meat and put it over the fire to char, then put it between two toasted slices of bread and call it a meal. But that was camp food. For Aymeric, he could do better than that, surely.
What did those such as Aymeric eat for breakfast? Well, sometimes they ate little cakes, cooked in a pan. But he didn’t know how to make the little cakes, so he dismissed that idea. Sometimes they cooked eggs, with little bits of meat and vegetable folded up inside. That was more to his ability, he thought. Surely he could manage that.
He began to rifle through the pantry, searching for the necessary ingredients. Eggs he found, though fewer in number than he’d hoped. And there was some cured karakul meat, which was familiar to him and found a place on the counter next to the eggs. Vegetables he also found, though in such a number that they overwhelmed him.
He had little idea what to do with such things, plucked whole from the ground or vine and then stored in baskets here. Should he use carrots? Possibly. What about squash? No, that didn’t seem correct. Potatoes? He frowned into the cupboard, frustrated as his idea fell apart. This shouldn’t be so difficult. As he desperately searched for something to guide him, his gaze fell upon a jar of oats.
Immediately, his mind went back decades to a time long gone, memories of clutching his mam’s skirt, watching as she’d stirred a pot over the fire. Aye, he knew what to do with those! Abandoning the idea of vegetables, he snatched the jar from the cupboard and set it down next to the other items. Now, the question remained: what did this place have by way of milk?
The answer turned out to be leftover milk from the previous day, tucked away in the cold pantry. Still smelled and tasted fine, though, so Estinien added it to the pile. Yes, this was starting to come together. But he had to get started, if he wanted this to be ready by the time Aymeric awoke. He found a pot, set it upon the counter, and then stopped, finding himself stumped.
There were ratios, he knew. You were to put in so much oats to so much water and milk. If you put in too many oats, they wouldn’t cook properly. If you put in too little, the mixture would be watery. It had seemed so effortless when he’d watched his mam do it — and he was sure it had been, for her — but he’d paid little mind to the details, being but a child. Well, he’d just have to do his best.
He splashed some water in, followed by an equal amount of milk, a choice which seemed as good as any. This he heated, hovering over the pot as if it might betray him were his attention to wander for but a moment. When the mixture began to bubble, he spooned oats in until it looked right. Now all that was left was to let it go, stirring every so often lest it burn, until eventually it turned into porridge.
That left the meat and the eggs. He cut paper-thin slices off the meat, starting them in a pan. While that sizzled, he worried over the porridge. Could you stir it too much? He wasn’t sure, but he stirred it anyway. Porridge, meat, eggs, and what? Tea, he realized. Aymeric couldn’t start the day without his tea, which needed brewing.
Letting the porridge go for the moment, he put the kettle on and went to find the teapot. There were many jars of tea, all neatly labeled in Aymeric’s looping handwriting. But which kind did he drink for breakfast? Estinien resorted to taking the lids off of each in turn and sniffing them, discarding any which smelled spiced, too light, or too fancy. Breakfast tea was hearty yet ordinary, aye? Left with only a few candidates at the end, he decided to go with one labeled “Highland Blend”.
Back to the fire, stir the porridge, and check the meat. Well, that was done, at least. He grabbed two plates and folded the sliced meat over onto each of them. Then he cracked the eggs into the same pan, remembering from his time working over the campfire how the juices left behind by cooking meat would add flavor to anything cooked after. It really did make it taste better, and wasn’t just an excuse for fewer trips to wash the mess kit.
The eggs needed constant attention, threatening to stick and burn. He kept them in constant motion, breaking the yolks and scrambling them together with the whites. So intent was he upon the eggs that he nearly neglected the porridge, but a quick stir set that to rights. It seemed to be thickening, though not as much as he’d hoped. Perhaps he hadn’t added enough oats, after all. But there was no time to linger upon that thought, busy as he was with the eggs.
And then they were done. They weren’t as fluffy as those he’d seen others make, but they smelled good and there weren’t any runny bits. He filled the rest of the plates with the eggs, careful not to spill any upon the table, then turned back to the porridge.
Dipping the spoon back in, he caught some of the oats and lifted them out, blowing on them to cool them. Putting them in his mouth, he cautiously chewed. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected — a burst of nostalgia, unbearable waves of memories of times past — but it was just porridge, and nearly done at that. He’d needed more oats after all. Well, there was little he could do about that, now. They’d simply have to make due with runnier porridge than intended.
Now, how did this tea thing work? He opened the teapot, and its middle fell out with a clatter. Wincing at the noise, he righted the thing and checked over the little basket that had fallen out. The tea went in there, he thought, and the water was poured in to brew inside the pot. It all made sense. He filled the little basket, setting the teapot aside to wait for its water.
Another quick stir of the porridge, while he wondered if there was anything he was forgetting. Meat, eggs, tea, porridge — oh, he should find something to go with the porridge. Some kind of fruit, perhaps. He moved to the far pantry, searching through it for, oh, some kind of berries perhaps? There, he recognized those ones — faintly sweet with only a hint of tartness. He lifted that bowl from the cupboard, and also grabbed a few imported citrus fruits he recognized on his way out. There was a juicer around here somewhere, he knew.
As he turned to return to the fire, he froze, spotting the servant who had just entered the room. Candle in one hand and fire poker in the other, his expression was fearful but determined, a dangerous combination. And, at this moment, Estinien was his prey.
“Hold there,” Estinien called out softly. The fire poker swung his way, but lowered ever so slightly. Good, the man recognized his voice.
“Ser Estinien?” There was little accusation in his tone, primarily bewilderment. Aye, Estinien did see how this could be confusing.
“Didn’t mean to alarm you,” Estinien said, deeming it safe to emerge from the dark corner. “I couldn’t sleep, and decided to start breakfast.”
“In the dark?” The poker did lower now, as he apparently recognized Estinien was no burglar, pilfering from the pantry in the early hours of the morning.
That was suspicious, wasn’t it? Estinien hadn’t thought twice about it, accustomed as he was to the gifts Nidhogg had left him after his possession. But he understood that others would see it as strange. Unfortunately, he had little excuse for it. He certainly couldn’t tell this man the truth.
“Aye,” he said simply, placing the fruit upon the counter.
“Well, you don’t mind if I light the lamps, do you?”
“Not at all.”
Estinien turned back to the hearth, stirring the porridge before taking another taste. It was done, so he took it off the fire. The difference, he thought, was in the ingredients. The milk they drank here in Ishgard was different than the milk he’d grown up with, from their own farm. He reckoned the oats were different, too, but couldn’t quite pin down how. Still, it was porridge, and there was no reason Aymeric should ever know it wasn’t intended to be so soupy.
“What’s that, then?” He’d finished lighting the lamps, and had come to check over Estinien’s work.
“Porridge,” Estinien said, and the servant hummed.
“You planning to eat in the dining room, or take that upstairs?”
Estinien hadn’t gotten that far in his planning. Why not take it upstairs? Breakfast in bed seemed like something that would make Aymeric smile.
“Aye, I’ll be taking it up with me.”
The man nodded and turned, disappearing into a storage closet. Estinien turned back to the matter at hand, ladling out the porridge into two bowls. The berries went into a smaller bowl, to be shared between them. A quick search of the top cupboards revealed the juicer, and with only a little effort he managed to wring two short glasses of tangy yellow-orange liquid from the fruits.
As he was pouring the boiling water into the tea kettle, the servant returned, carrying with him two trays: one tea tray and one tall tray with little feet on it. Estinien nodded his thanks, arranging the food. Now that he got a good look at them in the light, those eggs did look rather suspicious, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.
When the trays were loaded — two trays had been a good call, as he’d made far too much to fit on even the larger tray alone — the servant returned, carrying a miniature pitcher which he placed on the tea tray. He looked to Estinien, tapping the edge of the pitcher.
“My Lord might also enjoy birch syrup in his porridge. You might suggest it to him.”
“Aye, that sounds like something he’d like.” The berries were enough for Estinien, but he knew Aymeric had a taste for sweeter things.
“I’ll be up shortly with the tea, if it pleases?”
Estinien nodded, picked up the large tray, and started upstairs.
Aymeric rolled over, arms reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Where was Estinien? He opened bleary eyes to take in the sight of his bedroom, empty but for himself, lit by the cold light of early dawn. Was Estinien in Ishgard at all? Had he merely dreamed it?
He pressed his face to the pillow, breathing in deep. No, Estinien had been here. And look, over there upon the floor, where he’d thrown his shirt down just last night. Perhaps he’d stolen away to use the toilet, hoping to be back before Aymeric woke. But no, that wasn’t right, either; the bed was cold, apart from where Aymeric had lain. Estinien had left some time ago. Had left Aymeric to wake up alone.
He sighed, drawing his knees up to his chest beneath the blanket. Surely, he had a good reason for it. And having left without his shirt meant that he surely hadn’t gone far. But all the logical thought in the world wouldn’t erase the disappointment of rolling over, of reaching, only to realize that he was waking up alone.
At the sound of the door opening, Aymeric clutched the blankets to his bare chest, unsure at first who was coming in. But it was Estinien himself, hair spilling down over bare shoulders, carrying a breakfast tray with a look of pride upon his face. Oh. He’d gone to make breakfast.
“Morning,” he called out, gently kicking the door closed with his bare heel as he brought the tray over to Aymeric. “Legs down.”
Aymeric adjusted himself, arranging the pillows behind him so that he might sit back with his legs flat, allowing Estinien to settle the tray over them. There was a bowl of what seemed to be a loose porridge, blueberries, some variety of fruit juice, fried meat, and —
“The eggs are brown, Estinien.” He studied them a moment longer, before looking up to Estinien, who was pulling a chair over to the bed. “Why are the eggs brown?”
“I didn’t bother with the lights,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss the complaint, though he carefully avoided meeting Aymeric’s eyes. “You know I can’t see colors well, in the dark.”
“They’re not burned, are they?” Aymeric picked up a fork and inspected the eggs. The color wasn’t uniform all the way through, but it was unlike any kind of charring he’d ever seen. It almost seemed as if they’d soaked something up as they’d cooked.
“I cooked them in the meat pan.” The tips of Estinien’s ears flushed faintly pink as he admitted the problem. “They’re fine, I think. They smell good.”
Well, there was little else for it, at this point. Aymeric cut a bite, lifted it to his lips, and placed it in his mouth before he had the chance to second guess the plan. His eyebrows rose as he chewed, exploring the flavor of the bite. While the appearance left much to be desired, the rich flavor was incredible. Even without spoken praise, Estinien visibly relaxed as Aymeric ate — apparently, not immediately spitting the bite out was compliment enough. But he hastened to swallow, that he might express his gratitude properly.
“Thank you, Estinien. This was very thoughtful of you.”
Estinien smiled, leaning forward to re-arrange the tray so that he might make use of the end closest to where he sat. As Aymeric tried the meat — which was good, as he’d expected — his steward arrived with a tea tray, which he left on the bedside table before leaving. Estinien poured a cup of tea for Aymeric before offering him some birch syrup.
“You might try that in the porridge, as well,” he suggested, indicating the bowl with a quick flick of his hand.
Aymeric nodded, taking an experimental spoonful of the porridge. Well, it was bland. There wasn’t much else to porridge though, was there? He tossed in a few of the blueberries and drizzled a swirl of syrup on top. His second spoonful was better, the earthy flavor of the oats now accented with the freshness of berries and a touch of sweetness from the syrup. It was rustic to be sure, and could use a touch of salt, but far from unpleasant.
“What kind of juice is this?” Aymeric asked, lifting the glass up to the light as he tried to remember what fruits he’d had on hand.
“Ah,” Estinien said, making a face as if he was undergoing an examination which he hadn’t thought to study for. “Orange juice?”
“Because it’s made with oranges, or because it’s orange in the glass?”
“Because it’s orange.” He shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “I recognized the fruits, and I knew they made good juice. Fury only knows what they were, though. One of them might have been an orange?”
Aymeric had not purchased oranges yet this season, so he felt that was unlikely. There had been a collection of La Noscean citrus in the fruit pantry, many of which resembled oranges, and he suspected that was what Estinien had found. He took an experimental sip from the glass, followed by a larger swallow, even going so far as to rudely lick the remnant from his upper lip.
“Estinien, did you try the juice?”
He shook his head.
“Do. It’s incredible. And certainly not orange juice.”
Estinien did so, his own eyebrows rising at the taste. He set the glass down, nodding.
“That’s good. Sweet. I see why you like it.”
“Mhm.” Aymeric smiled, beckoning him closer. “Come here, love.”
Estinien stood, carefully leaning over so as not to upset the tray. Aymeric reached for him, his hand passing beneath that white curtain of hair to cradle the back of Estinien’s neck as he guided him closer, close enough to press their lips together. As Estinien pulled away, smiling, Aymeric spoke again.
“You taste like juice.”
“And you taste like birch syrup.”
Aymeric let a wicked smile come over his face and tried to pull Estinien closer again, but he was ready for it, laughing as he fought off Aymeric’s grasp. After tussling for a moment, Aymeric conceded, lest they upset the breakfast Estinien had worked so hard over.
“Thank you again, my love,” he said. “I knew not what to think, when I awoke to find my bed empty. But you’ve more than made up for any momentary distress. Can I expect this every time you come to stay with me in Ishgard?”
As Estinien groaned, Aymeric laughed, the joy banishing any remnants of the morning’s doubts from the room. Estinien would not abandon him, not anymore. He had to trust that the man he’d chosen to love would be kind, would take care of him. And such faith became easier every day.