The security agent at the terminal accepted the piece of toast as calmly as if he was looking at any other passport from any other passenger. Ellen, who had begun sweating when she realized the huge gaping flaw in their plans started to breath heavy in a primal attempt to “stay cool.” As all such attempts go, it failed miserably, and the man examining the crusty, crumbling snack that had up until three hours ago been in a bag on her kitchen counter, looked up at the tall nurse to see if he could spot her problem. This made her more nervous than before and the blush on her cheeks began to hurt.
The guard showed the tasty document to the two men in uniform behind him, they both immediately came to attention. Ellen’s breath suddenly felt constricted. It was becoming harder to breathe, every moment they stood at this counter. ...every person on the other side of this desk is armed... she realized.
Handing the scrutinized toast back to the short man in front of him, he smiled, and told Banner “It’s nice to have extra security on board the flights. Welcome, sir, and if you need anything before take off, my name is Cuddy, sir.” Taking back the piece of bread, Banner inclined his head and simply said a quick “thank you” before waltzing through the detectors. The brogue he had learned from Ellen intentionally thickened to match that of the young Master Cuddy, people tend to be less suspicious of those most like themselves, and Banner walked just like the uniformed security officers, and even somewhat matched the attitudes of the various Royal Scottish Marines she had seen scattered about the concourse.
Turning his attention up to Ellen, the bright and shiny young agent calmly asked “Are you well, Miss? You look quite flushed.” His tone was one of concern, but strangely not one of suspicion. She wasn't certain how to take this.
Clearing his throat, Alvin spoke up from the other side of the metal detectors, his deep voice attained with a contrived boredom. “Come along, dear. I know you hate flying; but it’s far too late to take a ship to New York and not miss the wedding.”
Sergeant Cuddy's face lit with understanding, and compassion. “Oh, nervous about the flight, miss? I understand,” the guard looked sincerely at her with kind green eyes. “My mum and dad are both petrified of flying. When they were young, all flights were giant petrol fueled nightmare machines, but that hasn't been the standard for ages now. And lift-wing flights now have so many safety features, there is honestly NOTHING to concern yourself with. If it gets too bad for you just try eating something, takes your mind right off the whole thing.” Cuddy’s bright smile was gentle, and so nice. He then turned to the petite woman who stood to his left, and asked, "Cap, isn't it about lunch time? I could run for some reffies, if you want to hold the desk?"
Bread… it was bread... you just looked at a bit of toasted bread and thought nothing of the fact that it was most definitely NOT a passport… he gave you a breakfast snack and we’ll be arrested for aggravated yeasting, and on an international flight that HAS to be terrorism…While her mind raced around the silly facts of the situation, a rigid grimace of bared teeth that might look more at home on the face of an angry baboon, clasped tightly to her lower face and would not let go.
Walking down the concourse her jaw loosened just enough to ask through grinding teeth “Bread?” Flaring eyes turned to the man she had come to think of as Banner.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Looking up at her calmly from hooded brows, the handsome little man, without slowing his pace toward the terminal explained. “Bread, beer, mead…these crafts, the making of these things are some of the oldest things made by all the tribes of humanity that are still in constant use. They have a magic all their own, and to anyone who can cast charms their magic can be turned in small ways. Most people who are good at such tricks just use them to convince you they are great... makers of food...?" He looked to her for assistance.
"Cooks. And brewers, I guess. For the beer and mead.” His hazel and amber eyes lit with delight at the new words. "Coooooks." He repeated to himself.
She was determined to remain angry instead of having her head turned by fascination. Alvin led them to their gate, and they all sat, waiting. He and a newly well dressed, or better dressed at any rate, Banner talked quietly in deep, rumbling tones as they waited. Sometimes in something that wasn't German, other times in something that wasn't Welsh.
Ellen felt the need to interrupt. “What about clothes, pottery and…and weapons? They’re still used today, can you do magic with them?” As they all sat awkwardly in the waiting area chairs, things never meant to be comfortable no matter your size, her simmering rage and embarrassment abated some as ‘Ker looked her almost in the eye as he chose to stand, and casually stretch. She could hear various of his joints popping as he adjusted.
“Weapons became metal eons before the migration of my people, metal can be worked by and with magic, certainly, but it takes more skill and time than we had this morning as you two insisted I wear new brogan ays stoicanean," With that he tipped a well shod foot toward Nurse Lindsay, and flashed some ankle playfully. "It also lasts longer, and would not have done anything to get us beyond that guard post short of bloodshed. Clothing can easily be bespelled, but Trutt said I needed papers the guards would respect to get me here, so putting a glamour on my lovely new baggy pants would not have served, either. I don’t do ceramics. No talent for it. My pots and cups all look lopsided and ... fat?...” His face bunched up at that, though Ellen didn't know if it was at his ability with ceramics, or his not knowing just the right word to use in English.
He took a huge breath as he stretched again, and noticing the toast in his hand for the first time since the metal detectors, began to nibble at his passport, which even to Ellen’s eyes it seemed, as he continued. “Bread came before metal weapons, anyway, older magic. Easier to use, and stronger when you know what you’re doing. Some people argue over whether beer came first, but it was something like a small book that Trutt showed me I needed to copy, bread was the natural choice with what we had on hand…while Cuddy might have liked being handed a beer, I doubt it would have served our needs. I asked Trutt what would work best for our purposes, and he told me, I grabbed some slices of the sweet tasting light bread you had in your home, and made what Trutt advised so that it would last a day. It might last two.”
“So what did your crunchy little “passport” say that impressed them so much?”
Banner looked over to Trout and asked a question in a flurry of deep popping rumbles. Trout looked at Ellen and said simply, “It has his name, or close to it, your address, and the image of a badge and papers that would be carried by a Sky Marshal…”
Ellen was thunderstruck. She tried to not gasp out, incredulous. “Your passport says you are a Sky Marshal…”
‘Ker’s eyes strayed to the wall of celestra that the airline had placed to keep peoples’ attention from their discomforts. Whenever the projected hologram jumped, the scene changed, or the programs cut to commercials he gave a small start. A rainbow of crumbs sprayed from his mouth as he said, “Yes…but my passport needs butter…”