Nimeth Beetroot strode into the kitchen of The Maimed Mare, the new Orcish tavern in Narrow Rock owned by his old fellow, and celebrated Chief Cook, Dicesparrow. The scents of rice noodle, bell peppers, and succulent boar made him salivate as he stepped into the sweltering kitchen.
The door creaked shut and Dicesparrow spun from his cutting table. His deep red eyes widened. His lips curled around his tusks and lifted into a rarely seen smile.
“Nimeth!” He bounded over, capturing Nim between his massive arms and squeezed the wind out of his forlorn fellow. He pulled away and wiped starch form his apron. “What are you doing here?”
“My favourite mentor opens a tavern and I’m supposed to deny him a visit?”
Dicesparrow studied the summer elf. “Then, you took your gronking time planning a visit.”
“I waited for the duke’s blessing before I tested the food,” said Nimeth, avoiding the real purpose of his return. “What was the duke’s rating? A half seal?”
“Full seal!” Dicesparrow batted his chopper, then frowned at the vegetables he had accidentally cleaved. “Insufferable. You milkys underestimate Orc skill. From my Blood-kin, to the Knobes of Myurkart, all know the nightmeal of Dicesparrow.”
No one underestimated the Chief Cook. Aspirants of all races emulated his dishes. Apprenticing cooks worshipped his skill. Six years prior, an envoy form Ljosalgard scoured his gilded plate for a miscalculation of spices within Dicesparrow’s food to prove the Night Elves wouldn’t be accused of favouritism. The envoy settled on a lack of salt, and Chief Cook Dicesparrow threatened to wring his ‘twiggy neck and use his hide for seasoning.’
“Tis food you’re here for?” Dicesparrow asked.
“Aunt and uncle migrated south. I offered to oversee their cottage until a suitable buyer arises for the deed exchange.” Nim glanced around. “But your grool does smell descent.”
“Grool? Descent! We’ll rename this tavern the Muted Milky when I catch your tongue.”
Nim laughed as Dicesparrow feigned a grapple. He missed this. He savoured the orc’s playfulness and whole and felt a sense of brotherhood ripple through his broad chest. “Fair enough, big green. It does smell amazing.”
Dicesparrow dropped his meaty arm over Nim’s shoulders. “Tis grand seeing you, Nim.” He guided them to the door. “We’ll find you a table in the galley. A pissant Yarl dined there at noontide. After you’ve eaten one of my new dishes you think you’ve died and reached the Hall of the Slain. You laugh, but nine of ten alchemists agree, the gateway to the Otherworld resides within my ‘grool.’”
Nim laughed again.
He followed Dicesparrow to the dining hall. It was how Nim pictured it. Hand carved chairs nestled along longtables covered in Orkish linens, scented candle wax dripped from pristine stonework for ambiance at nightfall. Orcish shutters were retrofitted over the windows to allow a cool spring wind through the ornate hall. Dicesparrow had built an addition for a more modern kitchen at the rear of the old school house, and kept the dining hall true to the building’s origins. The bar beside the kitchen bustled with off-work patrons, and serving maids singing wine orders.
A human patron wearing the fine linens of a Baron hailed Chief Cook Dicesparrow.
“Jah?” Dicesparrow sneered.
The patron frowned. “Your pottage is tainted.”
“My pottage is superb,” spat Dicesparrow. “Your pallet is tainted and your face spoils the barley.”
The Chief cook’s response was unsurprising, but Nim was shocked by the tittering of onlookers. Dicesparrow excelled at his craft, and his ego – and the Orcish culture curated from centuries of Firmground’s most brutal wars – brought the worst out in him. He failed terribly when it came to adhering to mix-raced social norms.
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Dicesparrow’s sneer snagged his tusk, and wordlessly marched Nim to a table in the gallery. He swatted his thick green hand for the closest serving maid. “Nightmeal is on me, Nim. You’ll be the happiest twiggy before you can finish singing the Ballad of Kurdtzmol.”
“That’s 23 whole stanzas.”
“Start singing, milky.” His old fellow winked, though it came of as more of a grimace.
Watching Dicesparrow descend the staircase, he failed to notice the serving maid appear at the side of his table. She slid a drink menu in front of him. He opened it, unsure how out of practise his alphabets were. He decided to defer to the serving maid for whatever vintage sold best, but as he glanced up his smile faded, and his inner hearth faltered.
“Boyne?”
Her practised smile died. Her bright eyes darkened. “Nim-Nimeth?”
He strained to parse a clever sentence from the storm of emotions billowing through his spirit, but words failed him. Two summers spent trying to unlearn her face. Another four of believing he had. Yet here she stood.
Should he be polite? Or demand answers she denied him six summers ago?
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Boyne Lothar’s wind caught in her chest. Her hands quivered. Had gorgeous Nimeth Beetroot – the treasure of her spirit – actually returned?
She pinched her side to ensure she wasn’t dreaming and found Nimeth’s stormy eyes locked on her. His full lips grimaced with contempt.
She recomposed herself, and cleared her throat to stifle a crack in her voice. “Chief Cook Dicesparrow intends for you to order. I only brought the menu so you could see what he offers.”
She turned to flee to the safety of the kitchen, but he caught her hand. She had forgotten how firm his grip was. “That’s all you have to say? To me?”
Darling, there were countless things! A bottomless well’s worth of questions. She had surrendered her inner hearth to him six years ago. That was before she knew she had to quit him so he could pursue his life’s passion. Over those six long and lonely years, she ached, and hoped her sacrifice had not been in vain.
But as his fingers danced across her tender skin, and her womanhood warmed with the memory of his cunning hands, she said not a thing. They had loved each other madly. Reckless and without guile. When she had refused his proposal of marriage, he had been devastated. She had never known a man to cry before that moment. It was the cost of supporting two people in The Gilded City that ruined the dream. Her sister, only a child of ten, would have tipped the scales of their modest income. Either Boyne abandon her beloved sister in Narrow Rock, or risk bringing her to The Gilded City and slowly turn poor. Both were unfair. She feared the choice of selling her sister into thralldom to continue her romance. The love of her kin proved greater. She knew what would happen. He would break himself trying to afford a home in The Gilded City to accommodate all three of them, or be forced to end his apprenticeship to earn more crowns. It made her feel ashamed. Love shouldn’t suffer. She lied to protect herself. She pretended he had only been a fling. He had departed for The Gilded City, alone, hating her for making him a fool.
And so, as he held her hand in The Maimed Mare, demanding questions she dare not ask, she steadied herself. She could not ask how he got on. Could not tell him of often she dreamt of him. Could not wrap her arms around his broad shoulders as she once had all those summers ago, and insist how happy she was to see him returned. She could do not a thing.
She pulled her arm away.
Oblivious to their turmoil, Chief Cook Dicesparrow returned with a refined seafood platter for Nim’s beforemeal. Mollusks. Smoked leaper bites. Kraken reeds. Darter fish. And olives.
Nim licked his lower lip. The same gesture he made when anticipation a kiss. His neatly cropped dark hair was far different than the rugged locks he’d grown six years ago. His chest had filled out. His back straightened and poised with muscle. Memories of that forlorn summer raced through her, warming her inner hearth, and saddening her spirit.
With Dicesparrow’s presence as an opening, Boyne sped off for another table.
As the sun settled between the mountains, she found herself watching her Chief Cook continue to spoil the only man she’d ever loved. Tiredness gave way to weariness. All those years to unremember him were ruined in a single instance. As she collected sullied dinner plates and filled flagons, everything she’d worked to misknow flooded back. Long nights in bed. Mushroom hunting. Sharing a single peach scone because they were too poor to afford two. He always offered her the last bite.
Fates! She wished to slip into bed and weep.
Nim bid farewell to Dicesparrow and risked a look at her, held her in his stormy eyes. Her coveted memories returned, and along with them a sense that her existence meant little in the eyes of the Fates until the moment she’d given herself to him.
Shrugging into his griffin hide mantle – a sign of how successful he’d been without her, proving her choice to discard him correct – he ventured over.
“I wish to resolve what happened between us.”
She smiled through her sadness to mask her pain. “I assumed things between us were well.”
“Well enough for you and I to be workfellows?”
Her jaw dropped. “But you don’t work here.”
“Dicesparrow and I worked out an agreement. For old time’s sake. At least while I’m in town, I mean. We decided it’d be enjoyable to work together once more. With two Chief Cooks, this place shall shine brighter than Diana’s Acropolis in The Gilded City. I start tomorrow.”