[Deaths] the De'Aths & the Morrigan
Title: breakfast and hellos
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Julian De'Ath, the Morrigan, Eduard De'Ath
Prompt: 26D "[Europe]"
Word Count: 1304
Notes: follows previous.
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The Morrigan damn near towed her into the kitchen, taking a good two steps to every one of Julian's own, which wouldn't have been a problem except that Julian didn't know the house and was thus mildly concerned about being walked into a wall or a doorway.
But they arrived safely, and the Morrigan swooped down on an iron teapot and battered enamel cups, crossing to the sink to dump the contents of the pot and one of the cups out.
"We have leftovers and breads, or I can cook something for you," she said over her shoulder, and it was only long experience and the absolute knowledge that the Morrigan could cook--as could just about any death above a certain age, just to survive--that kept Julian from bursting into laughter.
If she could persuade anyone to take the bet, she'd own an island with the winnings. As it was, she propped herself against the wall by the open doorway and said "What kind of leftovers?" as the Morrigan started the complicated process of making herself another pot of tea.
"Well, lavash and matnakash at the least--as the First claims neither of them are actually food--" she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, and Julian could swear she heard a crow call somewhere nearby. "--yershig, boraki and basturma. He does think mujaddara is food, so that's almost certainly gone. Your uncle happened to most of the misov boeregs last night, and I think there was soup the last time I got a look in the icebox."
For a woman Julian was willing to bet hadn't been this far south since the Crusades, the Morrigan had certainly picked up the local accent quick. "I'll see what I can assemble from the lavash and the meats--any chance of salats?"
"Not unless we go shopping," the Morrigan apologised as she started the second run of tea leaves, the handle of the teapot wrapped securely in a mostly-clean rag.
Propping her hip on the counter so she could properly face Julian as she started opening up the cupboards, looking for bread and wrapped meat, the Morrigan added "I think there was some moussaka--"
Julian laughed, tearing a piece of lavash free and eating it in two bites as she kept digging. "I don't think moussaka is food. There's something about the way the aubergine goes rubbery when it's cooked like that that just gets to me. Knives?"
The Morrigan jerked her chin to one side and Julian opened the proper cupboard, blinked, then selected a smallish one, bypassing the gleeful ridiculousness of slicing basturma with a cleaver the length of her forearm. The Morrigan was definitely a resident of this house. That thing would be a sword in the smaller death's hands.
Eight slices later, she licked her fingers, blinked at them, then down at the meat. "You weren't joking about this being basturma. Yow."
"If you think that's bad don't get into the yershig--I think your uncle's trying to keep the rest of us out of his food." The Morrigan shook the last strainer briskly over the pot, then dumped the leaves into a rapidly filling terra cotta amphora propped next to the sink.
Julian chuckled as she folded basturma slices into rolls the size of her index finger, laid them on the seam of a piece of lavash and started snapping. "No, that's just Uncle 'uard. Dad wouldn't let him cook when I was little--claimed he wanted my tastebuds to last into adulthood. Mind," she added as she assembled the next bastardised gyro, "he also claimed that he got that way because he spent too long in the sun drinking the waters of life instead of small beer or ale, so I'm disinclined to take him at his word." and God didn't it feel good to be able to talk about her father and have it not hurt.
The Morrigan was grinning like she could see right into her head, but Julian didn't mind it the way she usually did.
She shrugged out of the vest as the kitchen's fire made a dent in the morning chill, let her braces fall off her shoulders, hang next to her hips as she rolled her sleeves halfway up her forearms, went back to digging through the stores. The yershig was indeed gloriously spicy, and she only took a couple shavings off the end of the open sausage to flavour a wedge of the heavier matnakash bread. She didn't need much, just enough to cut the effect from the tea essence brushed thickly across the top of the loaf--whoever'd bought it had quite the sweet tooth.
She was just contemplating seeing if there were coffee makings or the chance for some normal strength tea when someone wandered past the kitchen door with their nose buried in a book. She grinned slowly as she remembered who that profile was, began to step backwards out of line of sight of the doorway as she mouthed "Toss me a boereg?" to her companion.
The Morrigan took a swig of her tea, then, steaming from the mouth like someone's decorative vent, sidled over to the icebox, found a forlorn misov boereg hiding in the depths and underhanded it to Julian.
She tossed the meat pie a couple of times to get the feel of it, flipping it absently as she did.
When the reader reappeared, sans book and looking very startled, she whipped the boereg overarm directly at his chest.
Her uncle snatched it out of the air, snake quick, said "Dammit E--" before he cut himself off, glared at her. "Julian."
"Good morrow, Uncle?" she replied, grinning, and knew it was the smile that left no doubt as to whose daughter she was. Not with the way the Morrigan had covered her mouth with one hand to try to hold in the laughter, and the half-resigned glint in her uncle's glare.
She leaned back against the counter, spread her hands low in the same gesture she'd given the Morrigan for first greeting, still grinning. "Miss me?"
"More than words could express," he told her dryly, tossing the boereg back at the Morrigan and coming properly into the kitchen. "Took you long enough."
"It's been a long time since I was last on this side of la oceania Atlantica," she shrugged, "I took the scenic route. Rumour has it trade's rougher than usual along the Silk--your doing?"
He grinned at her, and she felt the warm rush of that smile all over again, because that was the Devil's grin, not the uncle's, and he'd only given her that since she'd grown up. She was forgiven, then, as she wouldn't have been sixty years ago for the same stunt, because her father wasn't dead anymore.
And that was why she hadn't come home, after the letters of condolence reached her. She was her father's daughter, and close enough to hurt someone looking for her father, and finding only her.
Her uncle wasn't the Morrigan--thank God--so it was her who had to take the first step, offer an embrace, which he took, squeezed her hard before letting her go. "Welcome back, niece," he told her seriously, and she gave him a crooked grin.
"You may want to eat those words, when I give you the list of rumours. Did you know you're supposed to be mad, poisoned by some Persian plot to bring down the councils in preparation for a takeover from the south?"
"No, but it doesn't surprise me. Come into the study--I've got coffee and a map table."
"Let me just--" she hacked off another wedge of matnakash, didn't bother cutting the sweet with sausage because the coffee would pair nicely with it plain. "All right, lead on."
He snorted at her, nodded politely to the Morrigan, and went back out into the hallway, the way he'd been heading before he was interrupted by an unexpected relative in his kitchen.
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Julian De'Ath, the Morrigan, Eduard De'Ath
Prompt: 26D "[Europe]"
Word Count: 1304
Notes: follows previous.
---------
The Morrigan damn near towed her into the kitchen, taking a good two steps to every one of Julian's own, which wouldn't have been a problem except that Julian didn't know the house and was thus mildly concerned about being walked into a wall or a doorway.
But they arrived safely, and the Morrigan swooped down on an iron teapot and battered enamel cups, crossing to the sink to dump the contents of the pot and one of the cups out.
"We have leftovers and breads, or I can cook something for you," she said over her shoulder, and it was only long experience and the absolute knowledge that the Morrigan could cook--as could just about any death above a certain age, just to survive--that kept Julian from bursting into laughter.
If she could persuade anyone to take the bet, she'd own an island with the winnings. As it was, she propped herself against the wall by the open doorway and said "What kind of leftovers?" as the Morrigan started the complicated process of making herself another pot of tea.
"Well, lavash and matnakash at the least--as the First claims neither of them are actually food--" she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, and Julian could swear she heard a crow call somewhere nearby. "--yershig, boraki and basturma. He does think mujaddara is food, so that's almost certainly gone. Your uncle happened to most of the misov boeregs last night, and I think there was soup the last time I got a look in the icebox."
For a woman Julian was willing to bet hadn't been this far south since the Crusades, the Morrigan had certainly picked up the local accent quick. "I'll see what I can assemble from the lavash and the meats--any chance of salats?"
"Not unless we go shopping," the Morrigan apologised as she started the second run of tea leaves, the handle of the teapot wrapped securely in a mostly-clean rag.
Propping her hip on the counter so she could properly face Julian as she started opening up the cupboards, looking for bread and wrapped meat, the Morrigan added "I think there was some moussaka--"
Julian laughed, tearing a piece of lavash free and eating it in two bites as she kept digging. "I don't think moussaka is food. There's something about the way the aubergine goes rubbery when it's cooked like that that just gets to me. Knives?"
The Morrigan jerked her chin to one side and Julian opened the proper cupboard, blinked, then selected a smallish one, bypassing the gleeful ridiculousness of slicing basturma with a cleaver the length of her forearm. The Morrigan was definitely a resident of this house. That thing would be a sword in the smaller death's hands.
Eight slices later, she licked her fingers, blinked at them, then down at the meat. "You weren't joking about this being basturma. Yow."
"If you think that's bad don't get into the yershig--I think your uncle's trying to keep the rest of us out of his food." The Morrigan shook the last strainer briskly over the pot, then dumped the leaves into a rapidly filling terra cotta amphora propped next to the sink.
Julian chuckled as she folded basturma slices into rolls the size of her index finger, laid them on the seam of a piece of lavash and started snapping. "No, that's just Uncle 'uard. Dad wouldn't let him cook when I was little--claimed he wanted my tastebuds to last into adulthood. Mind," she added as she assembled the next bastardised gyro, "he also claimed that he got that way because he spent too long in the sun drinking the waters of life instead of small beer or ale, so I'm disinclined to take him at his word." and God didn't it feel good to be able to talk about her father and have it not hurt.
The Morrigan was grinning like she could see right into her head, but Julian didn't mind it the way she usually did.
She shrugged out of the vest as the kitchen's fire made a dent in the morning chill, let her braces fall off her shoulders, hang next to her hips as she rolled her sleeves halfway up her forearms, went back to digging through the stores. The yershig was indeed gloriously spicy, and she only took a couple shavings off the end of the open sausage to flavour a wedge of the heavier matnakash bread. She didn't need much, just enough to cut the effect from the tea essence brushed thickly across the top of the loaf--whoever'd bought it had quite the sweet tooth.
She was just contemplating seeing if there were coffee makings or the chance for some normal strength tea when someone wandered past the kitchen door with their nose buried in a book. She grinned slowly as she remembered who that profile was, began to step backwards out of line of sight of the doorway as she mouthed "Toss me a boereg?" to her companion.
The Morrigan took a swig of her tea, then, steaming from the mouth like someone's decorative vent, sidled over to the icebox, found a forlorn misov boereg hiding in the depths and underhanded it to Julian.
She tossed the meat pie a couple of times to get the feel of it, flipping it absently as she did.
When the reader reappeared, sans book and looking very startled, she whipped the boereg overarm directly at his chest.
Her uncle snatched it out of the air, snake quick, said "Dammit E--" before he cut himself off, glared at her. "Julian."
"Good morrow, Uncle?" she replied, grinning, and knew it was the smile that left no doubt as to whose daughter she was. Not with the way the Morrigan had covered her mouth with one hand to try to hold in the laughter, and the half-resigned glint in her uncle's glare.
She leaned back against the counter, spread her hands low in the same gesture she'd given the Morrigan for first greeting, still grinning. "Miss me?"
"More than words could express," he told her dryly, tossing the boereg back at the Morrigan and coming properly into the kitchen. "Took you long enough."
"It's been a long time since I was last on this side of la oceania Atlantica," she shrugged, "I took the scenic route. Rumour has it trade's rougher than usual along the Silk--your doing?"
He grinned at her, and she felt the warm rush of that smile all over again, because that was the Devil's grin, not the uncle's, and he'd only given her that since she'd grown up. She was forgiven, then, as she wouldn't have been sixty years ago for the same stunt, because her father wasn't dead anymore.
And that was why she hadn't come home, after the letters of condolence reached her. She was her father's daughter, and close enough to hurt someone looking for her father, and finding only her.
Her uncle wasn't the Morrigan--thank God--so it was her who had to take the first step, offer an embrace, which he took, squeezed her hard before letting her go. "Welcome back, niece," he told her seriously, and she gave him a crooked grin.
"You may want to eat those words, when I give you the list of rumours. Did you know you're supposed to be mad, poisoned by some Persian plot to bring down the councils in preparation for a takeover from the south?"
"No, but it doesn't surprise me. Come into the study--I've got coffee and a map table."
"Let me just--" she hacked off another wedge of matnakash, didn't bother cutting the sweet with sausage because the coffee would pair nicely with it plain. "All right, lead on."
He snorted at her, nodded politely to the Morrigan, and went back out into the hallway, the way he'd been heading before he was interrupted by an unexpected relative in his kitchen.