A Taste Of Home

The aroma of meat roasting over a slow fire and broth bubbling curls through the air, wrapping around me like an unseen rope, pulling me forward towards the little wooden house in the midst of the rows of much the same structure that make up the settled. Warm, unguarded laughter echoes within, in bright contrast to the salty wind that comes in from the shoreline.

Alaric walks beside me, his steps unhurried. A faint stain of berry juice marks his thumb, leftovers from our earlier snacking.

"Took them long enough," he mutters, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips as he wipes his hand on his pants. 

I stare at him, puzzled. "For what?"

"For the invitation," he says, nodding toward the house. "I was beginning to think they'd leave us to starve on their island. And I promised you a meal while counting on their kindness."

The door swings open before I can respond, and a broad-chested man with lines of laughter carved into his face stands in the doorway. His grin is wide, eyes wrinkling at the corners in amusement.

"You think we'd let our Supreme waste away on sea air and berries?" The man I remember to be Montel, claps Alaric on the back, his tone fond and relaxed. "Come in. Your woman..." Montel paused.

"Kyra too." He adjusted.

I stiffen a little at the words, but Alaric merely smirks. He steps aside, one hand grazing my lower back as if guiding me forward. The touch is fleeting, temporary, but it leaves a trail of heat in its wake.

Inside, the home is a blend of woven rugs, bare wooden beams, and draped fabrics shifting in the wind seeping through the open windows. 

The low, soft-burning flame of a lantern, casts a warm and vibrant atmosphere in the room. The dinner table, scarred with the cuts and scrapes of a thousand meals, creaks under steaming bowls of stew, charred fish, and freshly torn bread. And sitting around it are a few other islanders I have seen around in our short time here.

They do not seem to be from the same household, but I can tell they share meals quite frequently here.

"Sit, eat," Maggie, the man's wife and the kind lady who had sent over the fruit, urges. She wipes her hands on her apron as she shoves Alaric toward the table. "I would not have my guests leave with nothing but berries in their bellies." 

"See?" Alaric shoots me a sideways glance as he pulls out a chair. "I told you they were starving us."

I roll my eyes but sit beside him. The warmth of the food is comforting against my palms as I accept a bowl from the woman. The first bite is a delight on my tongue, rich, smoky, full of the warmth of slow-cooked spices.

"You cook like someone who's stolen secrets from the gods," Alaric praises, ripping off a chunk of bread.

The woman snorts. "You flatter like a man who's confident he'll be requesting seconds."

The table erupts into laughter. Conversations weave in and out, topics shifting from the recent tides of the ocean to the element games, to the stubborn goats that had taken to mounting rooftops.

Somewhere in the midst of it, the young girl who delivered the bowl of fruits early on leans forward, chin in her hands. Her dark eyes flick back and forth between me and Alaric, sparkling with interest.

"You two are well suited," she says suddenly.

I choke a bit on my mouthful of water, coughing as all eyes turn to us. Alaric, of course, doesn't bat an eye.

"I believe so," another woman chimes in, smiling. "A perfect pairing."

Alaric's eyebrow went up, and he rests his forearm on the table in a relaxed pose. "So now you're all matchmakers, huh?"

"Only when it's this obvious," the first woman replies, teasing.

My neck grows warm, while I still feel torn between this version of Alaric and the cold, hateful one I am familiar with. I focus on my stew, stirring it absently.

The teasing carries on, the islanders all chiming in their own observations of Alaric and I together.

The meal stretches on, the fire crackling in the distance, the warmth of the room wraps itself around me like a forgotten hug. It has been too long since I'd shared a table with people in such a manner, simply as a person partaking in a meal.

The last time was perhaps sitting across from Hailey at our tiny coffee table, and munching on chips.

At some point, Maggie grasps my wrist firmly, her hand rough but welcoming.

"Come," she says, her voice low. "A word, just us."

I hesitate, glancing over at Alaric. He is still talking, his head tilted slightly toward Montel who sits beside him, his face more at ease than normal.

I follow Maggie into a more secluded spot, where the walls block out the voices in the main room. She turns to me, wiping her hands absently on her apron before folding them together.

"You carry a child, yes?"

The directness of the question has me wincing almost physically. I do not wonder how she can tell when I'm yet to show a bump, if the little children running around the dinner table are any indication, she is well experienced. I nod, fingers tightening on the folds of my dress.

Her expression softens. "Then listen well. A child changes everything. It will change you, change him." She glances toward the dining area, toward Alaric. "You must take care of yourself, but more than that, you must take care of him...be gentle with him. He has lost before."  

I frown slightly. "Lost?

Did she mean Carla, the Luna Supreme?

She exhales, her hesitation now evident, as if she had spoken out of turn. "His last mate… she was pregnant." A pause. Then, more quietly, "She passed with the child in her."

The words settle like stones in my stomach.