#thank you for the ask jiub!! i had a very different fill for this one in mind (might still do that one) but i wanted something lighthearted | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nulfaga · 4 months

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24 for orph? <3

24: "Hold onto this."

“Right. You hold onto this,” says Orpheus, and pushes some manner of paper into Martin’s hands—Martin fumbles with the page, a brown and battered folio, and peers at the writing. The letters are Cyrodilic, though rendered in someone’s loopy, gallivanting cursive hand. . .but the text is illegible.

“Yes?” Orpheus stares expectantly, bracing his big hands on the kitchen counter. Between those hands is his festive hoard of ingredients: pistachios, orange blossoms, flour, olive oil. “Direct me, Dragonborn.”

“I can’t seem. . .” Martin sets the page down, admitting defeat. “It’s not in any language I know.”

“It’s plain Cyrodilic. A sailor from Stros M’Kai copied it down for me decades ago. Might smack of Anvil a little bit. Let me have a look.”

Martin hands over the page: Orpheus takes it, looks utterly blank for an instant, narrows his eyes, and finally goes very pink.

“Can’t read in this light,” he mumbles.

Achille, the one competent baker in Cloud Ruler Temple and Orpheus’ sous-chef for the afternoon, clears his throat and suggests: “Let me go and ask the Grandmaster for his spare glasses.”

Short of announcing a family tragedy, this is the worst thing one could possibly say to Orpheus Velvassius, and this kind tactless boy stumbled upon it while offering help. “That’s all right,” says Martin quickly, before Orpheus, beet-red, can open his mouth and draw blood. “That’s all right. We’ll put our heads together.”

“Okay,” says Achille, bemusedly. “Where did you get all these things, anyway?”

“Bought some sundries the last time that balding monster sent me out.”

“Velvassius,” snaps Martin.

“He wishes I was pushing up daisies right now,” Orpheus replies, with the same heat. “And I’m not allowed a little invective? Even a little?”

“Be civil,” says Martin, meaning be civil with the Blades around, because I don’t know what I’ll do if they force you out. They’ve had this conversation so many times it’s rote. The first part is shorthand for the rest.

“Civility itself,” says Orpheus, and winks. “To answer your question, Bladesman, most of it came from Leyawiin, but I’ve been squirreling things away as I went. The olive oil is from the Gold Coast, of course. Nowhere better.” He observes the spread with pride. “If you’ll read out what you see, Dragonborn, I’ll see what I can make of it.”

Martin takes a breath and sounds out: “Shof l-blostm, est flam, l-thricemal wutra, lesh ye maor blostm sur hlabos dense.”

Orpheus grins. “’Dense-eh’, not ‘dense’. That bit’s Old Cyrodilic, you ought to know that.”

“’Chauffe’ is Bretic,” says Achille eagerly. “To boil. . .what did you say, sir?”

“’Blostm’,” says Martin. “Blossoms. The orange blossoms.”

“See,” says Orpheus fondly. “Easy.”

Achille stands on his toes to look over Martin’s shoulder. “Boil the blossoms on something flam. . .”

“Est flam. A high flame,” says Martin, recalling an Aldmeris dirge for which the Chantry of Akatosh loved to trot him out. Burn high the fires of Auri-El. “For the length of three wutra?”

“Yeah,” says Orpheus. “A wutra is a prayer, but I never knew what prayer he meant, so I always just rattled off the Song of Mara thrice over. She of the bleeding heart, she of the fruiting love, you know. Seemed to work.”

“Then pour the blossom-something. . .”

“’Maor’; the blossom water.” More Aldmeris. “The extract, I suppose.”

“. . .Onto a something something,” concludes Achille.

“’Hlabos dense’? Dense-eh,” Martin corrects himself.

“A big leaf,” says Orpheus.

“Dense is leaf?”

“Hlabos is leaf. He’s talking about a big, thin layer of dough. We cut it up later.”

“You named the prior’s horse ‘Leaf’?” says Martin incredulously.

“Oh.” Orpheus thinks for a moment and then laughs his huge laugh. “No. I’d love to take the credit, but it was that odd little shepherd at the priory. It’s a Dunmeris word. I quite liked it, so I didn’t rename her.”

“That gorgeous creature? ‘Leaf’?”

“Don’t worry, Hlabos doesn’t speak Dunmeris.” Orpheus takes a handful of orange blossoms and starts to mince them, motioning for Achille to take a cutting board and join him. Achille’s hands are faster and surer. “Why? What’d you name your horses at home?”

“My father named them,” says Martin, suddenly sheepish. “Always things like King or Golden or Knight. He had that sort of taste. He let me name one of the colts.”

“What’d you choose?”

“. . .Shalidor.”

“Shal—pfft. Fuck.” Orpheus shakes so hard with laughter he has to set his knife aside. “Mara’s mercy, Dragonborn, you can’t go after poor Leaf with a record like that.”

“S’pose not,” says Martin under his breath.

When the blossoms are boiled, the pistachios are ground, and the resulting puree has been flavored with radical amounts of honey, the three of them begin to roll out the large, paper-thin rolls of dough. The ‘leaves’. Achille takes one to himself and rolls beautiful, uniform leaves; Martin and Orpheus take one between them and struggle.

“Shitting hell,” says Orpheus when the leaf tears for the so-manyeth time. “I think it needs more olive oil.”

“No, it doesn’t,” says Achille with surprising sharpness. “Don’t add any more olive oil.”

“Ave, commander,” Orpheus grumbles, preparing to do more violence against the little ball of dough.

Martin, exasperated, takes his wrist. “A little gentler, love, or we won’t make one leaf when he’s done ten.”

Orpheus looks up, stung. His good eye is wide open. “Gentle as a spring breeze. Your Imperial Majesty.”

He’s difficult about these things: kisses; terms of endearment; a gentle touch. Suits him better to pretend he’s still in the Legion, punch Martin’s shoulder, banter with him, until something like this comes up—‘love’—and he looks as wounded as a little boy.

“You can’t want to be called 'Champion' forever,” says Martin. “You won’t exactly live up to it when you’re old and grey.”

“Ha,” says Orpheus. “You haven’t met my father.”

“I certainly don’t want to be ‘Dragonborn’ forever.”

He grins and turns his attention back to the dough. “Take it up with Akatosh.”

An hour or two later the pastries are layered, cut into squares, and baking in the oven. Achille, rightfully exhausted, has cleared out to play a hand of cards with the other Blades; Martin and Orpheus have brought dining chairs into the kitchen.

“What’s the occasion, anyway?” asks Martin, enjoying the sweet smell of the baking pastries. Somehow familiar, although he hasn’t had them before.

“No occasion,” says Orpheus. “Just thought you could use something sweet.” He hesitates for a moment and adds: “Actually there’s a little place on the Coast that makes these better than anyone. I’d have liked to take you there, listening to the sea and all. But since you’re in the hole, I improvised.”

This aggravating man has scoured half of Cyrodiil for ingredients for no other reason than it might make Martin happy. But in the face of a word of affection? Gods protect and deliver! Bar the doors, bolt the windows!

“’In the hole’?” says Martin faintly.

“Aren’t you? You can’t leave.”

“Hm.”

What Martin fervently wants to say is I don’t need all these antics: I just want you around. Instead, without much hope, he holds out his hand.

Orpheus looks at it. That injured look passes over his face again. He takes Martin’s hand.

They watch the pastries bake.

#they're making baklava <3 #my writing #thank you for the ask jiub!! i had a very different fill for this one in mind (might still do that one) but i wanted something lighthearted

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