DESTINY – 2
It was a foregone conclusion, but Wilhelm did not like Dolya. His deflection made matters as clear as the Window Car’s glass; he was an un-statesman-like, man-loving coward. For Wilhelm, he felt as though he’d wasted this name on a man unworthy of hearing it spoken. Could he take solace in nothing? His washroom assailed by women, the Wyrmwerk soiled by that apostatic dream, and now, the only name it had ever chosen, given in an act of defiant ignorance.
No, do not weep. Do not weep. These were gifts and it was not worthy of them. Others below were. Those who had it worse. It was no matter worth tears, beyond those of guilt for having such pleasures when others did not.
Still, he regarded this so-called Prophet with contempt. He was not witty—he was skillful with his tongue, as all cowards are. He was no leader—he was a man desperate to be seen by other men, desperate to be regarded, to be acknowledged. Wilhelm was beyond these things.
He would not let this weak man dictate what he may call himself!
In time, the group reached the archway of the grand Palace, a heavy, angular marble arch bearing the pockmarks of bullets and ivy from neglect. Upon its surface were the engraved forms of naked faelings, their faces caved in from a wide, deliberate vandalization.
The Palace itself was a beautiful thing, though it too bore the scars of a recent battle. A large square building lay at its center, flanked on both sides by adjoining complexes, not unlike a winged manor house at a massive scale. As the stories climbed, the boxes formed an elliptical dome that capped their respective buildings. Protrusions from these domes gave way to peeking windows, as though eyes silently studied the party below. The palace walls were only just visible past the interior hedges, their watch towers but thin protrusions that were nearly double the wall’s height, like white spears piercing the landscape. Many of these structures, too, appeared to be under repair—the blood may have been gone, but the soot of lance-fire and high explosives left deep scars in the marble’s sleek, shining facade.
Upon entry, the group would find it in a similar manner of disarray. Workers of all species moved across the finished olive-wood floors and called orders to one another, over one another. A select few carried canvas-cloaked furniture across the expansive grand hall, while others worked on ladders or scaffolding, repairing sections of the crown molding and wainscoting. Dolya spoke not a word and passed through the sea of workers with the entourage as though his very presence parted it. No one bowed, not a man cheered, and those shouting did not lower their voices. It puzzled Wilhelm like little else before. Where was the reverence? The honor, the songs in his name?
..A thought troubled Wilhelm. A line of inquiry blinded by this man’s demeanor.
Was the Canine his reflection? Did no one truly love Dolya, only tolerating his presence for his power of foresight?
..No. He was nothing like this coward. And he cheered inside, knowing he was receiving what those who sought such adoration deserved: A pale reception.
But why was he seemingly so unbothered?
The Lamb drew a fist once more as it marched. If Wilhelm could spit at this Canine’s feet, he would.
They came to the dining hall at last—much of this room appeared otherwise untouched by the hideous violence that spattered the exterior, and whose remnants kept the workers’ hands in the idle act of repair. It was quiet here. Center-stage was a table upon a flat obsidian disk, the length of a small boat stretching end to end. Dozens of ornately crafted chairs flanked it—two in particular at the table’s center, their backboards standing tall above the others flanking it. At one end of the hall was a small stage, its surface veiled behind a black curtain. At the other end was a large alcove a few feet above the table, which played host to a large ornate throne and a roaring fireplace behind it.
The table was set with a wide variety of cuisine Wilhelm was utterly unfamiliar with—an assortment of fruits and vegetables, some so foreign he knew not which was which—cuts of steaming bread, stained by vibrant speckles of herb and oil. Strips of flesh sliced so thin and so free of blood that the fat was nearly transparent. Some bowls held coarse green and red paste, while others held some manner of soup, its broth a cream-hue.
And finally, there were the various plates of still, thin, pale… worms… tangled and often resting beneath the red paste and herbs, topped with a coarse white dust.
If ever there was mercy to be granted in this minagery, Wilhelm found solace in the roast pork. Three pig carcasses sat upon silver platters, heads removed, resting bound in prayer. The removal of the prey’s head for burial was a custom carried far across the Medieraum, not confined to any one state—Well, bar one state in particular—but predation there was barred altogether.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, have a seat! You are more than welcome to sling your weapons and gas masks upon the chair’s ear; they were made for such a purpose!” Dolya announced with a hearty laugh and sauntered to his chair with his escort. He sat in the left-center chair and awaited Wilhelm’s guard to be seated on the right.
Wilhelm himself made the first move, to which his escort followed with near-practiced precision. The Lamb took his seat at the counterpart to Dolya’s chair, while his guard sat down in lock-step with one another.
“Such precision! It makes a man wonder if these dogs of war are truly beasts of flesh and blood.. Or, if they are mechanical constructs, made by your Impratum’s little cog-cult.” Dolya snarked, lifting a glass of wine without offering so much as a toast.
Wilhelm scowled. The guardsmen once more moved as one, as they took their repeating lances and hooked their slings over the right ear of their chairs. Carefully, they gripped their faces and unbuckled the straps, many now falling into their own motions. As they removed them, Wilhelm kept his gaze on Dolya—watching his reaction closely.
He had little.
Beneath their faces were those of canine veterans. Gray muzzles, neatly kept mustaches, deep scars, and missing features—one lacked much of his nose, the other lacked an eye—typical of only the most dedicated of fighters, but flesh and blood they were.
“..Hm. I yield to your experience, brave men.” Dolya muttered, his smile crooked, faltered. Disappointed.
“Now,” He said, perking up as though it had never occurred.
“What shall we toast to, men? ..Men? By the glass which we tread, you all seem so tense!”
Wilhelm shuddered at the proclamation. No. It was a dream, do not dwell on it.. Cease!
Wilhelm raised the glass of wine by his plate, and said quickly:
“To a swift and just peace between our states.”
Dolya’s brow lifted, surprised by the initiative. Wilhelm’s guard looked at one another, equally as surprised. One particular Canine—more a boy than any of the veterans, his face younger, eyes more fiery—seized his own glass and toasted:
“To a swift and just peace!”
In time, the sloppy toast had made its way across the table until the silence returned.
“Yes.. To a swift, and lasting peace~” Dolya cooed, and he brought his glass to clink against the Lamb’s, his smile as wide as ever.
“Naturally, it figures our interests may seem to be at odds! I lift the tyranny of the allied crown, I give land and bread to the peasants and drive the rich from the temples they banked in, all while speaking the future of the poor for nothing in return, and ei fattio! I am naught but an enemy of the Impratum in your eyes! I assure you, however, our allyship is a principled one—but, conditions, my friend, conditions.” Dolya explained with a cool demeanor, reclining in his chair, “Though—that can wait. Enjoy what the people have made for you!”
The Lamb began his dinner with bread. There had been a solitary loaf that went unclaimed, and steam wafted from its beautiful gold crust. He placed his gloves neatly by the table’s edge and brought his bare hands to the loaf’s surface. This caught the ire of Dolya, whose busied lips delicately downed his wine. He watched curiously as the Lamb’s bare hands brought themselves to the bread’s skin, to which he chortled, blowing wine onto the ceiling of the glass, and coughed a gentle sputter. With unsteady hands, he set the glass on the table, gulped down his meager serving of spit and alcohol, and brought a white cloth to his nose and lip, giggling.
“My, I- I was hardly expecting a dignitary such as yourself to use such means..” He spoke, small chortles colored his speech.
“Mh- No, carry on. You are my guest.. I’m sure you’re as perplexed by our customs as much as-” The Canine laughed one hideous exhale before finishing “As much as I am yours!”
Wilhelm’s face burned bright. Worse still, he had yet even to eat a chunk of the loaf. He tore a piece from the damned thing and devoured it, hoping against hope that while his face burned, his expression gave nothing to this incubus. He swallowed hard. It would seem Lady Favor was to be a cruel mistress this evening—Wilhelm’s jaw fell slack, brow furrowing as he watched the Canine remove his own gloves, and pick out a plain loaf for himself.
“In truth,” Dolya spoke, and he tore the bread in two as he held one half in his right. With a firm grip upon a bowl of the creamy soup in his left, he dunked the bread into it, and he held it there dripping for Wilhelm to see. “I had been expecting some manner of mockery for my people’s similar handling.. A.. Peasant’s handling of piatu, that is~” In one fluid motion, the Canine opened his maw wide in a grin as he clamped down on the soft, soaked bread, a giggle ever-present as he chewed.
“It makes a man wonder, does it not? Mh-Tell me, little Lamb, you too were once a peasant, sai?” Dolya spoke as he chewed, much to the chagrin of Wilhelm’s guard, who bore bewildered expressions at the display.
“..No. I have been an instrument, and little else. That is my purpose. I am played when words fail.” Wilhelm stated blankly, his gaze icy, hands idle.
“..Hm. Well, I look forward to hearing you played then! I get the sense words will likely fail your Impratum in this case, if they are rolling off that grim tongue of yours.” Dolya dismissed with a swipe of his hand, the same which held the bread.
Wilhelm felt as though he might lunge at this beast and end this whole ordeal prematurely. The rage coursing through him stung like poison—and strangely, it was his gut which felt the worst. Not ill—but ill-fed. Quietly, he held the loaf above his plate and tore into its soft, spongy innards. Slowly, methodically did each morsel give way, swallowed in quick succession.
And yet he craved for more.
When the bread was gone, he silently gestured for the pork roast to be carved. This stunned even the still-giggling Dolya to silence, who was once more sipping his wine. He brought the glass to his lip and shot the most confused of looks to the veteran who held the carving knife and serving plate.
“I, Uhm.. C-certainly, boys, help yourselves! Who needs apitias anywaaa-” Dolya stammered. He now held his wine in his left hand, which found itself tipping back and threatening to spill. The Canine watched the Lamb receive a large plate where the hog’s femur lay. The guard who’d carved it made off with the pig’s crus, a grin on his scarred face.
The Lamb closed his eyes as he clasped his hands together in his lap, and he muttered a prayer softly. Before,
He sank his teeth into the leg without a moment’s hesitation, eyes fixed on Dolya. They were no longer overflowing with rage. They were lidded in pleasure, as Wilhelm savored the flavor. His teeth were not those of a lamb’s—his canines were as prominent as a carnivore’s, and they easily tore a dripping chunk of white meat from the bone. Chew, and swallow—
—A divine morsel. Sanovan Cuisine may yet prove to be an asset to the Impratum, even if this Canine did not.
Ah, yes, the Canine.
Dolya’s wine glass had tipped to its maximum, and a fountain of deep violet spilled onto the pristine white tablecloth. His entourage gathered close in horror, some fainting then and there, others appearing to fall ill as they covered their mouths and raced out of the dining hall. Dolya himself looked on, eyes wide, jaw slack. Not disgust, not surprise—a pure, unadulterated shell-shock, a malfunction of the mind, lost in a sea of crashing waves and perilous storm. Wilhelm’s entourage, meanwhile, found a perverse humor in the display, a chuckle rolling over them, lessening as the Lamb continued to feast.
“An instrument will play any tune its owner desires, Dolya. I am not here to play a song of violence. Such is not right of a peacemaker. That’d be too flamboyant—like yourself.. Sai?” Wilhelm grinned as his forked tongue slipped forth to rid his lips of any melted lard.
Despite the distressing display and the insult to his very being, Dolya said nothing—yet if the Lamb would focus past the dim yellow glow of the arc-lamps above..
He would just barely see a flush of red to the Canine’s cheeks.
A quiet, awkward affair, that banquet became. While his hunger—both for flesh and for retribution—had been satiated, the little Lamb was left wanting. And yet so soon after their arrival, a deliberation among the two groups had been called, for reasons that seemed only obvious to Wilhelm. The select guard he was with in the smoking room was a rowdy bunch—aspirational alums of the Volksvertre, the highest honor a man of the army could ask for—a real seat at the decision-making table in matters of war and domestic policy. Truth be told, it interested the Lamb little. He had used the matters of state as more of a cudgel than a good-faith proposal to broker peace—peace he knew would sooner come from besting this Canine in the realm of wit than the monotonous motions of state. All the while, he thought on Dolya. Every movement, every word, every look from those golden eyes.
Until the poor Lamb willed him into being. A knock upon the door, and he had returned. It troubled Wilhelm just how short a time it’d been before he reappeared—30 minutes at most.
“Alright antronori, believe I have the perfect solution to solve our little competition of interests! You see, I understand completely the tension facing our two peoples, and it is my belief that the guard may be somewhat interfering with the process. I honor your courage, but I think it would expedite things if I were to say, discuss conditions with Wilhelm personally, like how I proposed before—”Dolya coughed gently, and he shot an ugly glare at the Lamb “—well, the banquet. That considered, foreign customs, so unfamiliar, sai? We are a forgiving people—hardly a thing wrong with..” He swallowed hard and forced the remaining words from his gullet, spoken as though bile lashed the back of his throat. “Eating.. Outside your vore..”
It occurred to Wilhelm—this was strain, the words were forced—but not in any way like how it was intended. It was disingenuous. What a strange thing to put on a face about, Wilhelm thought.
“So, have we an agreement, men?”
There were few objections. If Wilhelm knew the guard would only tolerate his existence insofar as he continued to prove an asset worth protecting, then he was unsurprised by their cold reception of the man-lover. And so the two departed the grand Palace, their gait languid and steady.
The two men entered the main stretch from the open palace gate, and they passed by a group of peasants who wormed their way through. Some whispered among one another, and they vocalized their enthusiasm, how they might lay foot in such a decadent place, their hopes for the future.
“Have you heard? This place will be a commune soon!” The eldest of them spoke, to the pleasure of those who walked alongside them.
“I heard they’ll grow fruit on the lawn.” This was the youngest in reply, a small goat with his hand in his mother’s. The tone was flat, disappointed almost, and got a rouse out of the lot of them, which included Dolya. The group passed without a regard for the Canine, while the boy looked to Wilhelm, his eyes like saucers. He quickly squirreled himself away from the Lamb, which brought yet more laughter from the group of peasants as they fell out of earshot.
“Ah.. We will do both those things in time, my people.” Dolya spoke, his face softened, the sympathy palpable.
“Seems your younger self is scared of his reflection~” The Canine looked to the Lamb now.
“Your word holds no weight sans truth. Sheep and goat are distinct—you’re certainly no wolf.” Wilhelm scoffed, not bothering to return the Canine’s gaze.
“And you, my dearest Wilhelm,” Dolya smiled wide, sharp teeth peeking from the fleshy curtains of his taut gums.
“You are no Lamb.”
“Ever-observant.” Wilhelm muttered, face twisted.
“No peasant, either. Doesn’t put logic to your mannerisms, certainly, but one need not be of a lower strata to be treated like a bastardo.. I think I see a picture with you, little lamb-thing.” Dolya quickened his gait and made a motion towards a market further down the street. So quickly was Wilhelm’s scowl replaced with a fawn-like surprise as he watched the Prophet race ahead like a rowdy schoolchild, dashing toward a vendor’s stall. Left with little recourse, he raced after.
Dolya was requesting of the vendor three strange fruits already—one round and orange, the other green and shaped more as a rounded oblong octagon with a lumpy dermis, and the final being thin at the top but robust and round at the bottom, a light yellow. Without so much as a payment, the vendor rounded the three up and handed them to the Canine with a smile.
“Food is the lifeblood of all beasts, brother Dolya! Ah, and little Lamb! Enjoy the demonstration!” He waved as Dolya returned to the Lamb.
“Demonstration?” Wilhelm asked, his eyes transfixed on the bundle of fruit.
“Sai! A pondery in regards to your nature.” Dolya spoke with excitement unparalleled. He rounded an empty rough-cut table and retrieved from beneath a knife, his hand moving as though it knew it to be there already. Standing on one side, he placed the three fruits upon the table with his free arm, careful not to drop any.
“Now, you see this fruit here? It may not look to be, but this here is a mother, a father, and her child.” He began, the blade’s tip his pointer.
“This one here is a simple thing—an orange. None know which came first: the name, or the fruit! A sweet but bitter morsel of sugar, water, and flesh. See here,” He brought the length of the knife clean through the skin and to the table, parting the two halves with the knife still in hand.
“Its muscle is a deeper orange, some even red as blood, depending from where they stem. Now look here,” Dolya left the orange to bleed in the hot sun, the scent of its flesh and blood a tempting offer.
He held the dark green fruit; its skin appeared wrinkled and waxy. “A lime. Sour and seldom eaten lest it offers a benefit to a dish with sugar, or when paired with fish. In fact, despite its tart flavor,” Dolya brought the knife through the octagonal fruit, and made known an intense sour stench as it bled a white blood from its milky flesh.
“It’s known to tame the more dramatic flavors inherent to the sea. Such good fortune it grows so close to our warm shores..” The Canine smiled, his eyes wandering down to the table as he took that familiar soft tone.
“And at last,” His lips parted in that gummy smile once more, as he set down the knife and held in both hands the final strange fruit.
“The Belhem orange. Now, while it may look more a pera or a lymone than an orange, this pretty little morsel is called as such regardless, you see.. Inside,” He set the fruit with its smaller head facing horizontally, and he made his incision at its neck, beheading it. He moved the two parts away from one another, revealing a yellowish flesh, its blood oozing as though coagulated.
“A strange fusion.. The sweetness is there, but just barely. It is a sour, bitter thing, so potent as to need its sweet core touched by flame to draw it forth. And yet..”
“It is my favorite fruit to cook~“
Dolya’s smile was at its apex now, while the Lamb felt that fire at his cheeks once more. That tone.. It was not laden with the same coerced desperation he had heard in the voice of the second Ewe—This was by his own will. He stood there, attempting to regain his composure.
“..There may be truth to your word yet.” He muttered, unsure of how to proceed. Such a thing had never much concerned him. But upon further contemplation..
“Oooh my, you’d never considered it a possibility? How could that be, if you so confidently say you are no lamb?” Dolya asked, bringing his arms to cross as he studied the Lamb.
Wilhelm shot back a glare. “Lambs do not eat meat. Why inquire further, when inquiry serves no utility to your purpose, more often harming your chances to do right by way of the blade?”
Dolya sighed, and he brought a hand to his face, squeezing his thumb and index along the width of his brow. “See, little lamb-thing,” He began, moving from the table as he kept one arm drawn over his chest, knife brandished in his gesturing hand. “—This is where you are wrong. Look to this city, to me.” He spoke now with a distinct exhaustion to his voice, as though he had said these words to countless before.
“Without inquiry, my brothers and I would still be on these streets, not for the goodness of our hearts, with all intention of providing to those in need—we would be robbing, and killing, and fighting one another. Without inquiry, we would never have questioned why it is that we are so desperate for coin—we would have given it all for a morsel of food in the prosperous demesne, if it meant we need not relinquish a hand, were we found to have taken a loaf of bread sans payment.. Without inquiry, we would not have found the root of this ill to be sitting in that Palace, enjoying our people’s land and bread while we starved and went without warmth at night!” Dolya slowly raised his voice to near that of a rally call, arms outstretched as he paced in a circle. This at last brought the attention of those who’d otherwise neglected his presence, heads swiveling to meet the commotion.
And Dolya returned their looks, and said, “Sai, brothers?!”
“SAI!” The crowd returned, the call a messy one—young and old, deep and high, fluid and strained, carnivore and herbivore alike. Organic.
“Now tell me, little Lamb.. Do you know who’s rights you would rather kill for? Your Empire’s? Or your own?” He huffed, allowing his arms to fall limply by his sides.
The fire on Wilhelm’s face paled in comparison to that in his mind.
Without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed Dolya’s collar, yanking on the fabric to bring the dog’s face to his own.
“If fighting for my own sake would see me free, I would have been out from beneath Gottspyre the moment I took my first life. You know nothing of me, the battles I have fought, the nature of my species or strata, the motive to my very breath.. Nothing.” He snarled in hushed tones, lips peeled, his teeth bared. In a fluid motion, he tossed the Canine back, who steadied himself quickly. He looked to the knife in his right hand.. And then, he cupped his mouth with his left, stood there with his back arched over. Without so much as another look to the Lamb, he stuck the blade with the force of a far stronger man through the separated Belhem orange’s bosom, and deep into the table with a loud slam. He then stormed down the street and left the Lamb alone among the people, who looked to the marching Dolya with concern. The few still observing Wilhelm averted their gaze, a frown washing over them. No anger in their faces—disappointment.
Wilhelm looked to the table where Dolya had left the parted fruit. He grabbed the knife’s handle and pulled it free of the table, while the fruit remained on the blade. With his free hand, he pulled forth from his jacket’s breast pocket a handkerchief and maneuvered the fruit off the blade, wrapping it in the cloth. After the knife was back beneath the table, the Lamb departed. He did not want to remember this place anymore.
Come morning, he rested comfortably outside his accommodated room now, a seat taken on the Palace’s observation deck. And he reveled in the hot, humid air which kissed his face as he overlooked the rear garden. This place, it was as though the comforts of the bath had been stripped off the bone and shredded. It made for a more tender meal, even if it were to pale in contrast to doing verbal battle with that Canine.
..That couldn’t be.
He didn’t miss him..
Did he?
Incapable of receiving a woman when she is expecting to be his own, assailed by thoughts of attraction to his fellow man, dreaming of them before meeting them in the waking world—incapable of giving his very first name to someone whom he could trust, and now—
—Stop.
Wilhelm threw his scrawny body from the deck chair and made his way inside. He found the prospect of being alone with his thoughts a disquieting one, and no longer wished to sit idle. To his luck, the Lamb had a perfect reason to be in others’ presence again. With nimble hands did he grab the lid of a small ornate pail, which played host to large, uneven chunks of ice in cold water. Floating in its center was the glass that had been provided for his use at the nightstand, and within it was the chilly beheaded carcass of the Belhem orange in its handkerchief. Upon its retrieval, the Lamb walked purposefully to the dining hall, where preparations for breakfast were being made. He spied himself a chef, and flagged him down—a large wolf, whose face looked at peace. He smiled when he saw the Lamb—clearly word of the incident had not carried far.
“..Good.. Morning?” Wilhelm stammered. It was an unfamiliar tongue, cordial-speak. Flowed from his mouth as though the words were Dolya’s wine spilling onto the floor.
“Is it now? You sound not so sure yourself!” The Wolf had a hearty chuckle, to which the Lamb paid no mind.
“I was hoping you could make something with this. I.. Got it from the market yesterday afternoon.” He retrieved with delicate hands the handkerchief-wrapped fruit, depositing it within the Wolf’s large hand.
“Oh? Let’s see here..” With the opposing hand, the Wolf pinched the exposed corner of the handkerchief with the claws of his index and thumb, and unraveled the fruit till it lay in his palm, bare. He held it up for a moment of contemplation. He then snapped his fingers and said, “Ah-ha! You much a fan of surprises, hand of the Impratum?”
“..I suppose I am.” Wilhelm stated, his lips curled in an ever-rare smile, amused by the man’s mannerisms.
“Then I shall bake you a lovely surprise with this fruit, I assure you. Table should be ready by sun’s true rise!” He said, bounding back into the kitchen with an excited gait. One that reminded the Lamb of Dolya.
Wilhelm sat patiently at the table, thankful to be surrounded by these busied chefs. He had little other option, as his guard were still waking in slow motions. What had been a quiet, strangely contemplative night for the Lamb was a riot for his entourage, according to the Chefs. Neither he nor Dolya arrived to officiate their dinner, which left their guards bickering over which party was at fault, and the true nature of the events that transpired before they had returned. The Chefs did not pry—they knew better, and likely cared less about the truth of the event so much as the rowdy dinner. Many of the guards were hung over, having not lined their stomachs before indulging the demon drink. Small mercies thought the Lamb, they made for bad company, sober or not. Dolya not attending, on the other hand.. This was troubling him. Had he let this beast get the better of him and sabotaged this peace effort?
He needed a reproach—a different angle.
First down was the boy of Wilhelm’s entourage—that younger beast who’d been the only to meet Wilhelm’s toast the night prior. He was in a different manner of dress, stripped down to bare essentials, his leather chest rig and repeating lance absent. With careful hands, he smoothed over his black dress-tunic and looked to Wilhelm, and his eyes flared as he saw the Lamb—not in anger, but shock at his presence. As he was sat close enough, he leaned in to Wilhelm’s right, and whispered to him:
“Sir..! Forgive me, I—the company, we were all—”
“—drunk, yes, the waitstaff informed me.” Wilhelm spoke, his words never meeting the Boy’s hushed tone, nor his eyes.
“W-” The Boy stuttered, and recoiled gently. He steadied his posture and cleared his throat, meeting the tone of the Lamb. “Well, yes, many were..” The Boy’s word seemed to kick the ground in a sheepish disappointment at the fact. “Sans myself, of course..!” He blurted, ears perked. “We’d been looking for you last night when it came time for dinner. The men, they wish to know the manner of the negotiations that took place.. They’re worried, sir, that these negotiations, they’re being deliberately worked against by Dolya, in place of personal affairs and quarrels he seeks to settle.. I am understanding that is what caused your absence this night prior?”
Wilhelm felt his demeanor change. His chest tightened, and his body moved as though on its own. The chair it sat upon groaned as it stiffly turned to face the Boy, and it focused its eyes on the young body as though its jaws might part and devour this beast. Its expression never changed, and it said softly:
“I would ask that you speak no such assumptions to anyone in this critical time.”
And in an instant, the Boy’s ears flattened, and he squirreled himself away with haste from Wilhelm’s body. He looked much like that child he’d frightened yesterday. Wilhelm wondered where this Boy’s mother must be, for him to be in such an occupation, and yet still be frightened by word alone.
When the air was passing through his lungs once again, Wilhelm saw that his entourage had begun to arrive. Some of the eldest appeared as neat as the boy, while the lull in the rank were in a more sorry state. Their brows furrowed, eyes half-lidded, and bearing hideous glares with a raw displeasure at existence in this morning. Coffee was quickly passed to the lot, poured into small cups from the hot tin of a brewer’s press. These offerings were gulped down in short order, neither cream nor sugar worth the wait or word. Swift, too, was at least one cup, ejected back into its vessel in a carefully funneled waterfall.
“Pah..!” The Boy darted his tongue onto his upper arch, and he held his free hand palm-up near to his maw. “Our lady, w-whhaat did you lot brew this with?” He wheezed softly, and he shoved the glass of now-syrupy steaming liquid back toward a lady waitstaff, who was intent on collecting the sullied ceramic.
“With an instrument of refinement and class.” Called one of the gray muzzles. He did not look away from his drink; instead, he took a long sip that finished it off. Once the cup was upon its plate, the older Canine turned to meet the offender and the waitstaff.
“You have my apologies on his behalf, ma’am. The boy must’ve forgotten either his manners or his endowments in bed this morning.” He laughed and gestured to the cup in her hands. “If you could, hand him that one back—our volk aren’t ones for wastefulness, let alone with the gifts of others.”
With shaky hands did the waitstaff place the cup back onto the Boy’s plate. She departed as swiftly as she’d arrived, while the one who started this all stared blankly at the cup of spit and now lukewarm coffee. He downed its contents, incensed.
Rounds of coffee spun across the table like Gatling until the men of Dolya’s guard arrived. While still hung over, these tall and spindly beasts looked to have taken to the drink far better than Wilhelm’s guard. Some yawned, others stretched, and some even wore smiles on their muzzles. Two vacancies remained on either side of Dolya’s empty chair, however.
“So nice of you to join us.” The gray muzzle said through broken, gritted fangs. “I presume it our host has not taken ill?”
The Canine to the right of the vacant trio of chairs piped up, his smile slain and his jaw slack.
“Y-you.. Which-” He stammered, a gloved hand gesturing first to the gray muzzle, then to himself, and finally to his brothers.
“Yes, you, hasenfuß. Where is he?” Growled the gray muzzle.
The doors to the Lamb’s left swung open with a ginger gust, as though parted by a breeze. And he was there. He was neither smiling—he was scowling. He looked less a jovial, sultry man than he had the night prior. The absentee guards flanked him, stern expressions on their faces. The table fell silent as all eyes fell to the Canine. Once sat in his chair, the silence dragged. Neither one looked to the other. They dare not—for the first to look would be the first to speak—seldom did men look upon one another without a word spoken between them. Breakfast arrived not a moment later, and another assortment of strange food lined the table end-to-end. Some Wilhelm recognized—the yellow of cooked egg, the white pepper-speckled forms of blocked cheese, the earthy green of spinach, the red glint of diced tomatoes, purple sliced potatoes, and a select few cups of what smelled to be yogurt, flanked by grapes fresh from the vine. Meat was a sparing thing in this selection.. Perhaps the eggs would serve well enough?
“Ah, here you are, our esteemed guest,” A familiar voice spoke. Before Wilhelm could fix his plate, a silver dish was lowered onto the table, its lid unveiling a peculiar dish indeed—the thing bore a closer resemblance to a grub toasted upon flame than any manner of loaf the Lamb had ever seen, its hide dusted with a layer of white powder. It oozed from either end a syrupy string of light yellow liquid. Jam, or custard, the Lamb believed. His eyes held a deep fascination as he inhaled the pleasant aroma.
“Ripieno, with Belhem Orange Crema!” The Wolf announced with vigor and pride. “I do hope you enjoy!”
The two were alone again, pastry sitting between them. There were some hesitant glances exchanged, eyes not once meeting. With a shaking hand, Wilhelm drew the platter back. And he took his knife, and dashed the pastry in two with a slow, careful grip. He parted the equal halves, watching as the custard spilled forth gently and onto the platter. Upon setting the knife on his dining napkin, he brought his plate onto the platter with one hand, and worked a half of the ripieno onto the ceramic.
Wilhelm passed the plate to Dolya, whose eyes fell to the cut pastry, and returned to Wilhelm swiftly. Without averting his gaze, the Canine retrieved his knife and fork and cut into the thing with a stingy grip to his cutlery.
“Little Lamb,” Dolya spoke, bringing a portion of the pastry to his lips, jaws clamping down on the fork. “I don’t get you.” He mused as he chewed.
There was venom there, truth be told—though it was drowned in a genuine intrigue in his eyes.
“..Might I enlighten you to a truth I’ve left unspoken?” Wilhelm asked. He idly turned a piece of the ripieno’s flaky shell in the custard on the platter.
“By all means.” Dolya sneered, eyes narrowed.
“..This is the first time I have been tasked with brokering any sort of peace by spoken word.” Wilhelm confessed.
Dolya scoffed and twirled his fork in the air, elbow upon the table. “One needn’t be a prophet to see that—well, in the spirit of divulging the easiest of assumptions, I’ll enlighten you to a truth of my own.” He ceased the circular motion of his fork and now brandished it at the Lamb.
“At the market.. I found myself contemplating opening you up with that knife, to see what you really are~” Dolya was smiling, a tremor running down the length of his arm and to his core. He looked first to Wilhelm, who found himself staring, his gaze blank, irises flickering like little red flames. His guard looked on with furrowed brows and readied postures in the event this display of hostility continued.
“..B-but I am no coward! Unlike you, hiding behind your pleasantries, hoping to smooth over laying hands on me with a ripieno! What manner of harlot do you take me for?” Dolya asked, incensed.
“..You seem the sort of flamboyant fool to conflate personal grievance with matters of state.” Chimed the Boy. It was more a low growl than a snide remark, yet it drew Dolya’s attention to him nonetheless.
“And I am sorry, Wilhelm—who is this boy, exactly?” Dolya scoffed and received no reply. “He is strange beyond his meager years, how he speaks with two mouths—one chides me for being a man before a state, and the other speaks its grievances as I would!”
“You will hear no hatred of the divine lady from my mouth, you heretical man-lover!” Shouted the Boy in reply.
In due time, the dining room was filled with a chorus of angered voices belting a terrible song, the vitriol so palpable that Wilhelm felt as though he could not breathe freely. He watched Dolya closely, as his typically calm demeanor flowered into something far less reserved than the chastising revolutionary he’d been in the market. His face was red, lips peeled, hands moving in time with his speech as he traded blows with the other guards, seldom looking to the Lamb himself. Wilhelm had rarely seen this sort of embarrassed breakdown of civility from any beast, and had not expected to see it from someone as cunning as the Canine.
And yet.. As Wilhelm watched, he was overwhelmed by something stranger than fury—it was a fire in his groin. A tingling sensation which ran from his bundle of cherries and down the length of his shaft. It barely occurred to him what was happening until he saw the Canine retrieve his fork and shout over the symphony:
“Let it be known, maker of war! If I had no honor, I would have gutted you in that market where you stood! Since peace is so foreign a word to you..” The Canine took the fork and drove its silver deep into the table’s surface in a sickeningly loud clamor.
“Then we shall speak with steel instead! May we meet in the dueling chambers with our men to observe. The victor will draft the terms of whatever peace he wishes.. Sai?” His face was flushed, the proclamation leaving him panting. And despite its vigor and burning venom..
It was betrayed by a playful glint in his eye.
“..Sai.” Said the Hound with a hideous grin.
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