i know the scars on your legs. Who: Storm Kapur & Morgayne Falk What: Belated lunch. Where: Hellwyrm & The Roast. When: Friday, backdated. Rating: PG. Status: Complete.
At three o’ clock sharp, Morgayne made her way out of Hellwyrm, her eyes casting back and forth to look for Storm. She was in an odd mood with the other squire, and had been since the day before. Morgayne hated being lied to -- or more accurately, hated the accompanying sensation that she had misjudged, or miscalculated. He’d had his reasons, of course. Protecting Pyr from Juliette’s wrath was as valid as anything.
But for some reason, she couldn’t shake the shadow of irritation that lingered over her, like a dark shroud.
She shook her head, as if the simple motion could dispel the feeling from her mind. It didn’t, but that mattered little. They’d made plans, and Morgayne had no intention of breaking them.
Storm was expecting one of their usual encounters, if a bit more cheerful given the celebratory circumstances. Not that the debacle of the day before no longer weighed upon him—it had been his fault that the Min brothers were now so troubled.
But it was what it was: a thing of the past. The Mins would have to face the repercussions of their dishonesty. Of his own dishonesty, he thought little. So he approached Morgayne with a friendly smile.
As ever, oblivious to the turn of her emotions.
“Hello, Morgayne,” he said. “Are you ready to depart?”
She nodded curtly, and unfolded her arms from her chest, letting them hang by her side in a less defensive stance. Storm’s cheer caused a tendril of guilt to unfurl within her. Clearly, he believed the incident from the day before to be over and done with, and it really should have been. Morgayne briefly contemplated just shoving her own feelings under a rug, to be dealt with later.
But of course, they wouldn’t go so easily.
“How has your day been?” she asked, as they began walking in the direction of the ice cream parlor. Perhaps small talk would help melt the grudging feelings that maintained an iron grip on her heart.
“It has been rather dull,” he admitted. “An acolyte fell ill, so I was assigned to oversee his duties this morning. I did not think the Cathedral could have so many candelabras to polish.”
Storm, perhaps, would never quite overcome the indignity of menial labor. To his credit, he had learned to do even this work well. And there was, he could admit, a sense of accomplishment in the mundane, if mind-numbing, tasks of squirehood.
“I do hope yours has been more exciting?”
“Not really,” Morgayne replied, shrugging. “Just more of the usual.” A clipped response, but it sufficed. Still, the guilty feeling reared its ugly head once more, so after a moment, she added: “Went for a run this morning, then kitchen duty for the breakfast rush, which somehow eased into more kitchen duty for lunch.” There was something uniquely maddening about cleaning everything, only for all her work to be erased an hour after.
“It’s nice to be out of the hall again. Good weather, today.”
“Then I am glad to be taking you out,” came the automatic reply. And then Storm paused, realisation dawning. “This is not your first meal of the day, is it?”
“I grabbed an apple for breakfast, and some soup for lunch.” Both quickly eaten at the counter before resuming her duties. Morgayne had no idea how some squires managed entire meals during kitchen duty. It always seemed there was some task or another that needed to be done, and done urgently, at that.
“So technically, no. I’ll admit, though: it’ll be nice to eat something more substantial.” And she always enjoyed sweets.
But Storm did not think ice cream was even remotely substantial. “Perhaps we ought to stop by somewhere else first. I have heard The Roast has excellent lunches.”
A moment’s consideration. “You wouldn’t mind?” Morgayne turned to him, questioning. Her stomach was in full agreement with the suggestion, but she didn’t seek to inconvenience Storm. Who knew what tedious tasks awaited at the Cathedral.
Already, she could feel some of the irritation that lined her shoulders smoothing away. It was always difficult for Morgayne to stay annoyed with him; Storm’s thoughtfulness tended to outweigh the gravity of whatever had offended her in the first place.
“No, I would not,” he said. “Since it is your celebration,” Storm grinned, “I shall even treat you.”
Of course, he was not at all certain whether or not the occasion merited celebration. Lady Marcos was his sister’s best friend, and the two were well-met in their icy aloofness. There was, of course, the matter of the lady’s class—but such a thing, while to a degree distasteful, was not to the Kapurs the anathema it was to the rest of Pharist Emillion. So it was more the knight’s callous demeanor than anything else that concerned Storm.
Although the possible backlash to his friend was horrifying to consider. He was immediately struck by the urge to inquire further about Morgayne’s plans. It seemed to him that the questions had suddenly become a tangible lump in his throat. But the sensation would have to be ignored. Bit by bit, he was learning the art of timing. With Morgayne, he was coming to understand, it was better to wait until she presented the moment herself.
“Well, that I can’t resist!” Morgayne grinned in return, and her smile was genuine. Now more cheerful, she looped her arm through Storm’s and picked up the pace as they headed to The Roast.
“So,” she began after a moment, her curiosity rearing its head. “Have you made your decision -- about Quen, that is?”
“I—” He stumbled along, more than slightly flustered by the sudden intimacy. “I have not,” Storm admitted at length, his free hand rising to his nape. After a moment’s hesitation, he continued, “I apologise. I must be exceedingly… tiresome.”
He realised it was strange for a boy in his position to vacillate. The general topic of, well, fun had come up during one of those idle palavers that were surprisingly more prevalent among boys than girls. You’d be stupid to say ‘no,’ one of the older squires had said to another.
(And you’d be even stupider, yet another had chimed in, to say ‘yes’ and not use protection! Storm had not known what to say to that, although all the other boys had laughed rowdily.)
“Hmm,” Morgayne hummed by way of answer. It was Quen who was probably thinking Storm to be tiresome, rather than herself, she wanted to point out. But adding time pressure would do little but further confuse him, in her opinion. So she stayed mum.
“My advice remains the same, then.” Morgayne replied, finally, as they neared The Roast. “If you’re not comfortable with the idea, then don’t feel compelled to do anything.” She reached for the cafe door and grabbed one of the takeout menus as they walked in, allowing Storm the opportunity to end this train of thought and begin another, if he so wished.
He followed her in, mulling over the situation. He oughtn’t feel compelled to act, she said. But if something was expected of him, was it not then his responsibility to meet those expectations?
Storm sighed, shaking off his thoughts. There was the black mage exam for Quenten to focus on; he would happily take what time that offered him. Meanwhile, it was Morgayne’s celebration, not his.
“Are you nervous?” he said, taking one of the booths with her. “I know I was.”
Yes. “No.” Morgayne opened the menu, scanning down the list for something she liked. A grilled cheese sounded good.
“More excited, really. What’s there to be nervous about?”
“Well,” Storm began, looking over the menu as well. “I was exceedingly worried about disappointing my mentor.” He tended to be very good at that. “I knew that the assignment was far beyond my level—the korporal of the Silver Blades, of all people. He and I are… quite different, besides.”
“That is a concern,” Morgayne admitted. “But it’s inevitable, really, at least for me. I mean, the point of having a mentor is to learn from them, right? I just have to show her what I can do. And then we’ll work from there.”
The waiter came over, then, to take their orders. “Grilled cheese and a water, please.” She handed him her menu.
None of the listed foods had tempted Storm at all, so he gave the same order to be polite. As the waiter left, he conceded with a sheepish smile: “That is true. Perhaps I was overthinking it. In my defense, it did not help that, at the time, there were rather—” He fumbled for an acceptable term. “—colourful rumours going on about the korporal.”
“Oh, those!” Morgayne brightened, and leaned forward. “Were they true?” The korporal had insisted that they were not, of course, but anyone could lie over the network.
“They were most definitely not,” Storm insisted loyally. “The korporal does not keep women of that sort.” Of the women the man did keep, however, the squire wished to know nothing about. “It was a great relief to me, as you might imagine. I was not certain how I would comport myself if confronted with such paramours.”
He wrinkled his nose, then laughed. “In retrospect, believing in those rumours at all was most ridiculous of me.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Morgayne said thoughtfully. “Plenty of men indulge in some time with ladies of the night. More than you’d think.” Or so she’d heard. She agreed, though, that Rictor Cassul was not the type. Too proud to admit that he was wary of beasts in the Outlands, or even admitting to indulging in the prank candy, before others had shared their truths. He didn’t seem the sort of man who would pay for affection.
Storm raised his eyebrows. He supposed he had vaguely known as much, but it was always surprising to hear Morgayne phrase matters so frankly. He had thought himself rather knowledgeable, even jaded, for his age, until he had met her.
“You know everything,” he said, shaking his head.
Well. Morgayne bent to adjust her braid, hiding a smile. “I just ask a lot of questions,” she insisted. And eavesdropped, but she kept that one to herself. “People like to gossip much more than they’ll admit. Ask the right thing at the right time, and they’ll unload it all on you.”
Storm regarded her thoughtfully. “Not you, though.”
She froze. The smile slid off her face like water.
Morgayne was quick to adjust, to resume re-braiding the ends of her hair, and slacken the lines of her face. But for a second, she had revealed herself. Perhaps Storm hadn’t noticed, she thought frantically, but what else was there for him to notice? He wasn’t having a conversation with the salt and pepper shakers.
“What do you mean?” she replied, reluctantly, as their order arrived. Morgayne thanked their server and quickly took a large bite of her sandwich. Chewing was always a good excuse not the answer questions.
“You are not the sort to gossip about yourself,” he said, shrugged, picking at the corner of his sandwich. “I feel like I do not know very much about you.” He frowned, looking up at her. “Although perhaps that is a very forward thing to say. I apologise.”
Morgayne shook her head. “Don’t be silly,” she said, after she’d finished chewing. “You know me just as well as I know you. I just don’t have anything interesting to tell you. That’s all.”
“‘There are many ways to be interesting,’” Storm said. “Is that not what you told me?”
“I suppose I did.” A begrudging reply. She wasn’t used to having her words thrown back at her. “Then I’ll rephrase: I’ve already told you the interesting bits. The rest would put you to sleep.”
“That is not true. You never say anything that is not interesting.” But he did not press any further. Storm gave her an awkward smile before his gaze flitted down to her sandwich. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Very much,” Morgayne said with enthusiasm, grateful for the lifeline. “And you?” Storm had barely touched his own grilled cheese, she realized.
Hurriedly, he took a bite, swallowed. “Same,” Storm declared. Tilting his head forward, he added, “But do not think I have forgotten. You are still getting ice cream for dessert.”
She laughed. “Of course. I would have reminded you, had you forgotten. Dessert’s my favorite course.”
He laughed, too. And then easily, they fell back into their usual routine—questions and advice exchanged like currency over grilled cheese sandwiches. At the end of the day, she returned to Hellwyrm, he to the Cathedral, both their hands still sticky where the ice cream had melted.