All his life Sam was told that adrenaline was like a miracle drug in the human body. It could make you do things you never could before, endure pain for much longer than normal. The body pumped it through itself when it sensed danger or pain to save itself for a while.
It was all bullshit.
Sure the first minute he hardly realized that he had a sharp bit of metal inside him. He had been cut before plenty of times working in the kitchen. You didn’t make it a week as a cook without some kind of little cut, burn, or pinch. This was entirely different from a small knick on a finger or accidentally slicing off a thin layer of skin on a mandoline. Being stabbed had the sharp pain of being whacked with a wooden spatula but instead of it disappearing immediately that one moment of burning pain was stretched out forever.
Most cuts were nothing to be in pain about. Some burned if you got something in it like salt, but besides that they just annoyed Sam when he was reminded they were there. Inside his gut it felt like someone smacked him and decided to pinch the same place with a vice grip. Only there was no way to take it off.
Getting off his side and onto his feet was a monumental task. Every small twist and turn, every time he breathed he felt the knife slice into his stomach. Part of him wanted to pull it out but he heard over and over again that he should leave something in your body if it was deep enough otherwise it’d bleed out faster. The pain continued to tempt him to just yank it out and make a mad dash to the door. With his luck Sam would probably die two steps away from the door, leaving the owner wondering why some pig died on his doorstep.
His only hope was that whoever lived in the farm was nice, and could treat a stab wound. He put his hands around the knife to try and keep it steady and tried to walk but every movement made the knife move around inside him, and everytime it did he wanted to fall over and just die.
Every step closer sapped the strength from his legs, twice he nearly tumbled forward again. His mind started to drift, he tried to focus on nothing but the movement of his feet. Put one foot in front of the other. Don’t think of anything else, just walk forward. Doesn’t matter if some weird purple dressed asshole stabbed you, worry about him later. OW FUCK! He stepped a bit to the side, the handle of the knife bumped against his hand and made it move inside him again.
The feeling of a sharp blade slicing through his stomach felt disgusting, wrong, and fucking painful. Sam tried to take in a deep breath, and forgot about how the abdomen also moves when you breathe deep like that. He screamed and fell to his knees.
Tears started to fill his eyes. His pain was getting worse every moment. Not just from the fact he was hurt, but that he was going to start whatever journey Bard sent him on by crying for help at a stranger's door.
He cried out with all the strength he could force out of his throat. “HELP! HELP ME!” Again and again he cried, just hoping he was close enough to be heard. Apparently he was loud enough. By the time his throat had dried up and gone hoarse a hand with skin like leather was pulling him along. Even as he was brought along towards the house he still whined and wheezed out pleas for help. It was pathetic, but he wanted to live.
Whoever it was that helped him along slowly trudged alongside Sam. By the time they crossed into the house he could hardly see. Twice in a single day he was blind, this time his vision was blurred and wavy, he started to feel unnaturally cold.
Somehow he was laying on a flat, hard surface. Did I fall again? Clumsy fat idiot, stay on your feet in someone else’s house. His mom would have smacked his thighs if he sat on other people's furniture without permission. She was really old school and traditional about being polite and would pummel those lessons into his head every time she had an opportunity. Why was he thinking about that now? Wasn’t he dying?
A chilling coolness swept over his stomach and a sudden, sharp pain. Followed quickly by intense pressure. Someone was killing him. He shook violently left and right, throwing his hands out into empty space.
Someone gripped his wrist and pulled them down over his head. He tried to wriggle his way off his attackers; he could tell there were two, one pressing into the wound on his stomach and the one holding his hands down. Sam tried kicking his legs but he was too exhausted.
The world faded away, his limbs stopped responding to him and fell onto the hard surface. His vision went from a blur to complete darkness. Everything disappeared as he fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Sam found himself waking up and coughing up a storm. His throat itchy from dryness, it felt cracked. He hadn’t coughed this hard since his first time smoking as a young dumbass in middle school.
“Khomu! Khomu the man’s awake!” A shaky, motherly voice cried out as he continued to hack out coughs.
“I hear him! Give him some water, I’ll be right in.” Another voice, this one more gruff and a touch gravelly, called out from somewhere far away. Even as he coughed Sam could hear someone grabbing and moving things around the room.
Eventually a soft hand wiggled its way under his head and made him tilt his chin forward. Some kind of smooth stone bowl was pushed to his lips and lukewarm water flowed into his mouth. He leaned into it and swallowed ferociously for the refreshing liquid.
Sam gasped for air once he drank down the entire bowl and opened his eyes. He was laying down in a rather small room; his own apartment had been a one bedroom and living room that could barely fit his dining table, a couch, and a table for game nights. This place was a bit smaller, he was laid out near a wall with wooden shelves. If he stretched his arms out he could probably touch both ends of the room. It was long, filled with all manner of boxes, pots, a few small jars, and brown sacks. Was it a pantry? Did they shove him in the pantry like a slab of jerky?
He looked around the room and saw no windows, there was a small candle giving off a little bit of light, and a door towards his feet. Beside him was an elderly woman with skin a bit darker than his. A bundle of dark hair was tied up on top of her head in a bun with a long stick holding it together. She wore a dress that hung over her chest and sides with a series of knots going up the middle all the way to her neck accompanied by a long skirt that reached her ankles. Faint wrinkles tugged at the corners of her eyes, she looked about as old as his mother would have been, maybe late into her fifties or sixties at most.
The elderly woman smiled down at him and leaned over, pouring water from a rust brown jug into a small drinking bowl of the same color. She picked up the bowl and held it to his mouth. “Drink up young man, you need more water in you.”
Sam just stared at her and nodded weakly, leaning over and drinking more. This time he drank slowly, trying not to choke on water again. He welcomed the slightly minerally water. Once he finished he coughed again, not nearly as bad as the violent hacking coughs he had earlier. “Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary. My husband found you bleeding and screaming outside our farm two days ago. If we didn’t help you might have died.” She poured more water and before offering it pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Your fever has gone down, it's still quite warm though. Drink more and I'll prepare a cool towel.”
“R-right… Wait… You said you found me two days ago?” He’d been passed out for two days? He never did that, even when he had the flu.
The woman nodded and held the bowl to his mouth, helping him drink again. “You had a fever and were babbling about something for a day and a half. There we go, you should still continue to rest. The stitches in your stomach are still healing and you need the energy. We’ll get you some soup to fill you up. Excuse me a bit.” Once he finished drinking she rose smoothly from her spot beside him and shuffled over to the door, slipping out into what he guessed was the rest of the house.
Sam laid there and groaned a bit as he waited. He tried to look around some more but he didn’t find anything interesting. Some herbs and sacks hung from hooks in the ceiling, he couldn’t quite see what was laid out on the shelves, and his only source of light was a little wick set alight in a dish of oil sitting behind where the lady was.
His head pounded like a drum as he laid there staring up at the ceiling now. Two days in this world and I spent most of it blind and sleeping. Quite the adventure. Sam closed his eyes, wishing to just be back home or dead. Anything was better than humiliating himself even further.
After a few minutes the woman returned with a bucket of water, a bowl, and a small bit of cloth. She dunked it in the water then wrung it out so it didn’t spill as she laid it over his forehead. He felt like a child, but the cool cloth did wonders for his burning and pounding head.
“Thanks…” Sam muttered. He hadn’t been taken care of like this in forever.
“It’s what anyone should do.” The sweet lady pulled over the bowl that was steaming with something that smelled spicy. He could feel his mouth fill with saliva, eager to eat. It was just then in the presence of food he realized how hungry he was. The night he came to this world he ate but that was… How did Bard put it, a lifetime ago, and now he apparently had been asleep for two days. “Come on, let's try and get you up so you can eat.”
He struggled to lean forward as the woman pushed a sack under him. It felt like a bean bag, just less comfortable. Was he leaning on a bag of rice? The pain from his gut was still there, just dulled. It still hurt when he bent at the stomach, of course it would there was a knife in there.
She took a spoon and he saw a thin broth with small chunks of vegetables in it. He recognized little green peas, some kind of root vegetables that looked like carrots, and a few chunks of what he thought was potato. A spoonful was pushed into his mouth and he chewed on the vegetables. They were all coated in a light greenish beige sauce. Is this curry? It tastes kind of like it. Regardless of what it was he welcomed any food that warmed his empty belly.
In no time at all the bowl was empty, his stomach filled a bit, and his head didn’t hurt quite as much. He tilted his head over to her and smiled weakly “You saved me… Thank you.”
She shook her head and just took the bowl away and dropped it beside the bucket. “We couldn’t leave anyone to just die in front of our home. But, who are you? And where is it you got that wound?”
“Oh, right. I’m…” He stopped himself. I’m not Sam the failed chef and game master anymore. I have the same body but that man’s life was over. He recalled the story Bard told him before plunging a knife in his gut. “I’m Sahmat. From Lawashar.”
“Lawashar, the village on the other side of the mountains? What in Passion’s name are you doing here?” The woman leaned in closer and watched him carefully, eyes fixed on him. Was she suspicious of him?
“I’d like to know as well, what happened to you boy?” A gruff, raspy voice came from the direction of the door. Standing there was a man with a face of dark leather with a white beard. He had white, wavy hair that draped down to his shoulders but the very top of his head was bald..
Sam stared at the man a moment before taking in a breath and nodding. “The village was attacked the night I came running here. Uh… I didn’t see who they were, it was really dark. When I was running away one of them stabbed me and I kept on running.” He hoped they bought that story, he didn’t have time to rehearse anything with Bard before he stabbed him.
The man stepped forward and groaned as he knelt beside who Sam assumed was his wife. “That’s terrible. Who was your family? I know a few folks from Lawashar.”
Shit, he remembered the name of his father and mother Bard told him. Hopefully this old man didn’t know them, if they had a kid or not. “My father’s name was Sardur, my mother’s name was Kritra.” He spoke stiffly, should he have put more emotion in it? Maybe tried to cry a bit? Were they even dead?
“Sardur… Sardur.” The old man stroked his long beard as he mumbled. “I think he was a farmhand when I was there last. That was almost thirty years ago. Poor man. Did anyone else make it out?”
Whew. Safe, for now. He had to continue the lie however. “I didn’t see anyone else. I just ran… I just ran…” Sam felt his chest tighten and pain a bit, he choked on those last words. Was he actually getting emotional? Shit. He thought about it, a dumb kid seeing his family getting slaughtered, knees trembling watching his friends die. Then turning around and just running away, pushing the screams out of his mind… That kind of person was a coward right? Even in this world he was pathetic.
Both man and wife knelt beside him, the woman laid a hand over his head “Hush Sahmat, hush now. There was nothing else to do.”
“Ebahra, let’s leave the boy to rest. He must be tired still.”
“Ahh yes, that’s right.” The two worked and got Sam off the sack of rice and helped him lay flat back onto the ground. He groaned and winced a bit when he had to shimmy down to get his head back on a pillow the lady, Ebahra, brought for him but the pain was getting easier to deal with.
The old man gently took his wife by the arm and the two rose up. The man led her to the door and gently ushered her out and turned to Sam. “Rest more, that wound in your belly won't get better without it.”
Sam looked through bleary eyes and nodded “alright… thank you… what is your name?”
The man scratched his beard a bit and smiled down at him. “My name is Khomu. Rest now, Sahmat.” Without another word the kind man named Khomu left. Sam leaned his head back and took a shallow breath, closing his eyes. What is happening to me? He was tearing up at memories he didn’t have, and felt emotional at the idea of being a coward. With no little amount of effort he pushed away his doubt, cleared his mind, and tried to fall back asleep.
***
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Another two days of treatment from Khomu and Ebahra went by. They mostly came in and made sure he wasn’t reopening the wound, gave him food and water, then let him sleep. Every day dragged on a little longer.
He thought before that his life was an endless cycle of boredom and frustration. Wake up, work, eat, waste time, sleep, and repeat. It was all too easy to fall into the cycle of adulthood with little to no time for joy and excitement. Just work and time spent resting. But now there was no work in a kitchen, nothing to waste time on and fill the empty void of boredom. Now there were just his thoughts and a room.
Boredom made time crawl like a snail. He started looking forward to visits from the elderly couple. They didn’t ask too many questions but he tried to fit in as many as he could during their little talks.
Khomu had been a farmer all his life. He took over the land from his father and built two of the buildings he saw outside. The man talked about his love of hard work, how he actually liked the feeling of his muscles aching after a long day in the field or shaping wood and clay. He seemed like one of those hard working men that were far healthier than most people were at that age.
The lady, Ebahra, met Khomu in a village called Hradar just down river from the farm. She had been the daughter of a seamstress and a dyer. One day while Khomu was in town selling vegetables the two bumped into each other and she sold him a scarf for winter. Ever since then Khomu went to visit her every few weeks. Apparently her passion was making clothes, and that had been mentioned when he asked who stitched up his wound. He could imagine the old lady hunched over him with a thread and needle stitching his stomach back together like a tear in his pants.
Being with them felt like catching up with grandparents he never met. His own had died before he was even born and his mother never talked much about them.
He tried to move around a bit on the fourth day, his muscles started to whine and ache with every movement so he tried to use them more. Muscle atrophy sounded like a horrible fate and he wanted none of it. Then Ebahra scolded him when he twisted a bit too much and reopened the wound. She spent some time brewing a tea to force him back to sleep and restitching him.
The fifth day he pleaded with them to help him move around. The pair took turns moving his legs for him, helping him stretch. Khomu agreed that if he sat around too long his legs would lose their strength. It was a bit embarrassing, making two older people move him around as a man not even thirty years old.
On the seventh day he finally was let up out of bed. It felt good to be on his feet again and walking around, though he did need to lean on the both of them just to do a round inside the house. Maybe no more than ten minutes of walking and he had to be let down gently into a chair. He leaned as far back in it as he could to avoid bending around his stomach.
Halfway through the eighth day Khomu gave him a walking stick to keep himself up. Helping a large guy like him around must have been a lot even for the old working man. But the stick did help, he could limp around on his own and didn’t even need help when going back to his bed in the pantry.
That same day Ebahra handed him a fresh new shirt with long sleeves just like the one he wore the first night. This one had a pattern to it though, little lines of orange made diamond shapes across the chest with dots of red at the center. He wore the new shirt gladly, his old one was horribly stained with his blood.
He was able to learn more about them now that he could be up and about. On the ninth day he sat at a table with Ebahra. Their home was rather small, just an open area with a fire in the corner with an opening for smoke, some shelves, and a couple of large patches of what looked like hay with animal skin over it to serve as beds. Then there was the pantry and another room full of tools.
“Do you two live alone here?” It seemed like a big farm for just two people. Most would have had kids or helpers around.
“We had four children, all of them moved away. Our youngest girl, Khamara, went to the city two years ago. Since then it’s just been Khomu and I here. Well one of our boys, Khomuran, came by a few weeks ago. He lives in Hradar now with a wife and baby of their own.” Ebahra spoke with a fondness in every word. She must love having a reason to talk about her children again. His own mother talked to him over the phone nearly everyday since he moved away. He should have called her more.
“I see. Is your husband alright working so much?” Even for as strong as the old man was it had to be hard running a farm alone.
“Khomu is not as young as he was. He’s still stronger than any man around but he is getting slower. I try to support him but my own hands are starting to shake more.” As if on cue she picked up a cup full of a spiced tea with a bit of goat milk. Her cup did wobble a bit as she brought it up to her lips and drank.
Sam looked at Ebahra in her dark blue eyes and smiled. He reached over and held one hand over hers. “You saved me. You’re still good with those hands.” It felt odd saying something kinda cheesy but it sounded right.
She let out a soft laugh and nodded. “Well, you sit there. Khomu will be coming in for an afternoon meal. I’ll cook some for you as well. Do you like eggs? Our hens just laid a few.”
Eggs? He hadn’t had eggs even a couple weeks before his meeting with Bard. Sam nodded but then looked at the woman. She took out a small jar and a metal sheet to place over a small earthen oven. Next to it she set down a flat wooden plate, almost like a cutting board, a small bowl with a bundle of eggs in it, then he got to thinking. He stood up and groaned.
“Ahh Sahmat you shouldn’t move too much.” Ebahra protested but he pulled his walking stick close and hobbled over to her cooking area, holding up a hand to keep her away.
“You work too much for me. Let me make the eggs. I know how to cook, let me do that for you.” It was one of the only things he knew how to do, so he might as well use it to repay these people.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You sit down Ebahra. I’ll cook you and Khomu some eggs.” He looked at what she laid out and went over recipes in his head. Then he turned to Ebahra “do you have onions and peppers?”
“Huh… yes we do. We normally put them in soup and stew though.”
Sam smiled and nodded. “Could you bring me a couple? And a knife, I’ll make eggs unlike any you’ve tried.”
She stared at him and kept a smile from plastering over her face, though he could see the corners of her mouth curling. “Well, alright then. Just don’t hurt yourself.” In a minute she came out of the pantry and set down a red onion and a couple of long, thin, green chillies. Perfect.
Sam looked at the knife she set down, it looked more like a short machete. A bit odd to use since he was used to traditional chef’s knives. He picked up the knife and got to work.
In the jar Ebahra set down was a soft, off-yellow paste. He put a little on his finger, licked it, and confirmed his suspicions. It was clarified butter, pretty much ghee. Before he went to work on the eggs he peeled the onion, it was smaller than what he was used to, the onions in most kitchens were a bit bigger than his palm, this one was barely able to cover his thumb. Then he tapped his knife on the stone twice, split the onion from pole to pole, then set the halves down and started to mince it into tiny pieces.
“Why are you cutting it so small?” The soft voice called out from beside him.
“Oh. It’s to make it easier to eat… I guess.” He remembered asking this same question in culinary school. “And, it makes the flavor of onion more… intense.” It had to do with how the onion cooked out its juices and caramelized, but he never even thought about the technicalities of cooking anymore, it just made sense.
“I see… Is that normal in Lawashar? Or..” She hesitated bringing up the village Sahmat was from. Even though Sam didn’t know anything about it.
“Uhm.. Yes. It was starting to be, anyway.” He cleared his throat and continued to make the cuts in a checkered pattern down the length of the vegetable, then cut across it to make small pieces. Ebahra apparently didn’t want to ask more questions and retreated back to the table.
He moved the metal sheet that was slightly concave in the middle and set it over a cooking stand in the fireplace made of three bricks. He stoked the flames a bit and put in a couple handfuls of sticks that laid beside the hearth to feed the fire. With the knife he scooped up some of the ghee and spread it over the metal. Leaning against the wall was a large wooden spoon, classic.
With the spoon he spread the fat around the pan easier and then dumped the minced onion in. A wave of fragrance washed over him. Cooking onions and garlic always made a smell that everyone thought of as delicious, because it was.
Once he tossed the onions around enough to be coated in the ghee he started chopping the peppers. Nothing too fancy with these, he just sliced them into thin rings, leaving the seeds in. From what he had so far he guessed the local palate enjoyed spicy foods more.
First, he needed to prepare the eggs. He gently took each one out of the bowl and laid them out on the counter. One at a time he took each egg, tapped it against the wooden board to crack it, then split the shell over the bowl letting the familiar yolk and white fall into the bowl. He broke open six of the eggs, Ebahra had brought ten out. He figured two eggs each would be filling enough.
Then he realized eggs alone would be boring. “Uhh Ebahra, do you have any bread or rice?”
“Hmmm. There is some crushed flour, I can make it into bread for us. I had planned on that anyway.” She smiled and got to work making bread. He wondered if she would make some kind of naan or roti. That would’ve been perfect.
While Ebahra worked at the table mixing flour, butter, and water he got to work mixing the eggs. Once they were a solid light orange-yellow he poured them over the slightly toasted onions. With a hot pan over a fire he had to move quickly. He used the spoon to stir the egg mixture, forming small curds of cooked egg.
The open fire made the process go quite fast, a little too fast for his liking but he promised to cook for her and Khomu. He stirred and stirred until his arm started to ache a bit. Finally once the eggs were half solid he pushed them to the edge of the pan and threw in the sliced chillies. The spicy aroma assaulted his nose and sinuses.
He held back the coughs and just turned to the side to get in a breath of air. His stomach flared with pain for a bit, he wanted to yelp, to stop cooking and take a rest. He turned and looked at Ebahra. The older woman was working dough with her hand and shaping it into small balls. She was smiling. A simple kind of joy was obvious on her face, she was happy.
Sam… Sahmat. He didn’t want to start a habit of stopping short. He wanted to keep moving forward and make himself a better man. With a sharp breath he bit his lip and continued to cook.
The scent of cooked onion and chillies became his sole focus. The heat of the pan, the way the eggs slowly cooked and became more solid, the kitchen was all there was, he existed to be another tool.
The tool called Sahmat got to work, turning the eggs over so they didn’t burn. His eyes scanned around the kitchen area and saw bowls on a shelf. He set down the wooden spoon and marched over to the shelf, retrieving three fresh bowls and setting them out. Before distributing the eggs he looked around again.
“Ebahra where’s the dried spices?” Even as he waited for an answer he looked on shelves in the manner of a line cook rushing to finish an order.
“Dried spices? Oh powders. We have a small few in the pantry.”
It must be hard getting spices to an isolated farm. He’d need to be reserved. Even so he went straight into the pantry and saw small jars tied off with cloth. He untied the little cords and found a small series of powders colored red, brown, lighter brown, almost yellow, and more. He dipped his pinky finger in and found a red chili powder, something that tasted like cumin, and coriander. Three spices should be fine, they have eight here anyway.
With his arsenal of spices ready he took them out and set them on the stone counter near the flame. Being careful not to use too much he tapped on the jars to gently sprinkle the spices onto the nearly ready eggs. The scent that came from the hot pan now was amazing. He wanted to just dig in and eat it all himself honestly. He sighed and divided the scramble of six eggs as evenly as he could guess and put them into the three bowls.
Once his eggs were all out of the pan Ebahra appeared as if from nowhere and slapped down three balls of dough onto the metal pan. She watched the bread cook carefully, taking two long thin wooden sticks and using them to flip the bread once one side was cooked to a lovely golden-brown. They all puffed up a little with small bubbles of hot air as they cooked on the pan.
As the bread finished and the eggs cooled Khomu came through the door rubbing his arms. The man was covered in a bit of dirt that he washed away with a bucket in the corner.
“It smells good, Ebah!” Khomu chuckled as he stretched.
“You can thank Sahmat for that. He made the eggs. I just made the kacha.” Ebahra said something he didn’t quite recognize.
Kacha? What was that? Sam stayed quiet, hopefully it’d be more obvious in a moment. He set down the bowls onto the table, though Khomu came over and took the last two bowls when Sam limped from hearth to table and tried going back.
“You can still barely walk boy, don’t do too much.” He said as he gently patted him on the shoulder. “Now let’s eat these delicious smelling eggs.” Khomu cackled like a child as he sat down and took a long whiff of the food.
Sam took a seat at the table. Ebahra passed out a hot flatbread to each of them. He reached to pull apart the bread when she lightly smacked his hand. “Ahh sorry, but we should always give thanks for food. You should do it, Sahmat. You made the food after all.” Ebahra and Khomu just stared at him now.
Give thanks, like a prayer? Sam cleared his throat and gulped hard on his own saliva. “What do I do?”
Khomu spat out a laugh. “I heard the hogs were smarter than the men of Lawashar. Do you really not know how to say the hymn of Vridan?”
“I… I don’t actually.”
The two laughed silently between themselves. They seemed to think it was a joke but he really didn’t know. It was probably some sort of religious prayer they did before meals, crap.
“Could you teach me?” Sam had no other option, just act dumb.
Ebahra sighed and smiled at him. “Well, alright then. Here copy what we do, I’ll say the prayer. Honestly, I didn’t think the rumors of Lawashar being a godless town were true… sorry that was ill of me to say…”
“No, it’s alright… I guess it was like that… at least in my home.” Just pretend to be from a family of dumb godless idiots. Not the best solution but it was the only one he could use. “Please, continue.”
“Alright. Now, put your hands in a bowl shape and repeat what I say.” He cupped his hands and held them out, mimicking the actions Ebahra and Khomu did. Then she spoke “Vridan of the Hearth, hear our word and fill our bellies. Asjapanat.”
Sam repeated her words, even the one he had no idea what it meant. It was odd how some words still sounded foreign to his ears, didn’t Bard say he’d know the local tongue?
“Good job. Now let's eat.”
Khomu wasted no time digging in, tearing the bread into small pieces and using it to scoop up eggs into his mouth. “Mmm, the kacha’s still warm.” The two of them tried the eggs and made gleeful little noises like ‘Mmmm’ as they ate. Each of them had on silly little grins as they devoured the scramble.
Ahhh it is the bread. It must be their own word for this style. It was almost exactly like roti. Sam tore off a piece of kacha and pinched a small bunch of cooked eggs in his bread. The aromas were enticing, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth and chewed. The first real solid food he had in this world was amazing.
The eggs were just cooked right, no burnt bits. The spices mixed into every bite, hints of caramelized onion, grilled pepper, and fragrance from the coriander. A deep flavor from the cumin, and of course the kick of the chili powder, all of it came together to make wonderful scrambled eggs. Sam couldn’t keep himself from eating more with the slightly buttery, airy bread still hot off the pan.
Before he realized it he was almost done shoving the food into his mouth and discovered the old couple watching him. “You really like it don’t you?” Khomu asked with a wide smile on his face.
It was only then Sam realized why they were staring. He felt a wetness on his cheeks, he had been crying. He reached up with his palm and wiped away the tears, why was he crying at a time like this. Staring down at his bowl he realized the simple, and silly answer.
Bard told him in the apartment, just before he blew it up. ‘I’m also giving you the chance to tell an amazing story. And maybe make a meal you don’t want to throw in the trash.’ This was the first thing he’d made in years that he actually liked cooking and enjoyed eating. When was the last time he cooked because he wanted to, not just to fuel his body and to complete orders for people that would complain about something wrong with their food?
Now he was sharing a meal with two genuinely kind people. They ate it with wide smiles and eager hands, and it made him happy. Sam turned to Khomu and let out a soft laugh. “I’m sorry. It just feels good to cook again.”
Neither Khomu or Ebahra questioned it, maybe they thought he was reminded of home. In a small way he was. Scrambled eggs were the first thing his mother taught him how to cook. Now he was cooking them for others. It made him a little happy to cook with a smile again.
Even after the days of pain, blood, frustration and confusion in this world, Sam was able to smile.