27 but i am shit at updating my age. no antis or minors, please. she/her. posts abt noncon, guro, body horror, incest, etc-i try to tag but be cautious. project moon hyperfixation mostly but pathologic HAS just come in with a steel chair. aphoticdepths on ao3
I think it's important to remember that every single religion can be twisted for violence and oppression and abuse and control. Yes, including the one that you think can't be. But quickly, before anti-theists start saying that religion is an inherently evil violence accelerant, remember that this is true for any ideology, including anti-theism. Violence and oppression and abuse and control happens wherever there are people who think that those things will help them get what they want.
[for @morimenswrite day 4 - scale. on ao3 here. hands you all some doresalv]
Salvador, Doresain has noticed, is not one well-versed in the artistry of dining. Truly, it's a shame. Doresain would leave it alone, were it merely a disinterest — they all had their tastes, and Doresain tries to be understanding of others even if not one of his people — but Salvador labors under the ridiculous notion that he does not deserve more than the small, plain meals he allows himself, and that is something Doresain takes offense to. There is a difference, after all, between consuming plain meals out of preference and out of belief that one is not worth greater.
He'd been polite about his request, of course, but had made it quite clear to the Bishop Salvador that Doresain would be cooking him a meal, and Salvador was to eat it. The Bishop had seemed — apprehensive, almost, though he was quite impressively mostly emotionless, at his agreeing to Doresain's request.
"Please, sit." Doresain motions to the chair at the kitchen table. It's a small thing, the table, but it will suffice. He does not let his attention linger on Salvador overlong — already turning to the cabinets, searching for cookware and ingredients to use. He'll need to make something relatively simple, and light on the stomach. The other man has likely not had anything approaching Doresain's normal level of meal quality — Doresain is a chef, and he can acknowledge that his style of meal is one that is oft very heavy, decadent, and elegant. It would be a losing battle to attempt to serve a meal such as that to this man whose piety apparently forbids he grant any kindness to himself.
"Have you eaten yet today, Bishop?" He asks, conversationally, as he looks at the ingredients he's been able to find and considers. Rice, courgettes, a few eggs, some carrots, a handful of apples and some dried oats. My, this kitchen is rather understocked, Doresain will certainly have to fix that.
"I have." Salvador's low voice rumbles through the space between them.
Doresain pauses. (Hm, something light for sensitive stomachs. . . rice and steamed courgettes, perhaps carrots as well, could work.) "Have you?" The question is asked, but Doresain expects no answer. He's rather irked at the lack of any real protein — perhaps he will scramble an egg, to add to the meal. It won't be his best work, and he will have to constrain himself to smaller portions than his usual routine, but the point of this is to create a meal that the Bishop Salvador will enjoy and be able to fully eat, so Doresain shall just have to adjust. What a poor chef he would be, if he couldn't.
Nodding to himself decisively, Doresain pulls out a pot and fills it with water, setting that to boil. While that's being done, he pulls out a cutting board and begins peeling and cutting the carrots and courgettes both. He's loath to waste food, so he will use two carrots and a whole courgette, and whatever is left that's too much for Salvador's plate he will eat himself. Doresain is no stranger to eating his own meals (he had, after all, first learned to cook by cooking for himself, even if the castle had had chefs to do the preparation of meals for him).
When the vegetables are chopped, and the water is boiling enough to add the rice in, Doresain does so. Then, it's a matter of waiting — he won't steam the vegetables until the rice is mostly done, and scrambling the singular egg won't take much time. (He isn't in need of the protein, after all.)
While he waits, Doresain stands by the kitchen counter, and simply . . . observes. Salvador sits at the table still, head bowed, hands clasped before his face in prayer. Whatever words he speaks are too quiet for Doresain to make out (an impressive feat to be sure, with a ghoul's hearing). The heavy fabric of his cassock pools heavy around the man's shoulders, in sharp contrast against the white dress shirt and Salvador's own long curls, a faint blue iridescence among the otherwise plain white coloring.
His attention is drawn, then, to the tail, so carefully hidden among those same robes. The scales are faded, and look dry. A dull shade, to be sure, and cracked around the edges. Doresain's heart (whatever is left of it) sinks at the sight — that is dreadful malnourishment on display. There are patches of scales that haven't quite shed, and Doresain forces his breath to stay steady. He was aware of the Bishop Salvador's poor eating habits when he took the man to this tucked-away kitchen on Mythag's campus. He simply. . . has a more complete understanding of what a challenge this self-assigned task will be, now.
(He wonders, briefly, what those scales would look like if fully taken care of. If they would still be that matte gray, or if they would shift in different colors. If those scales would gleam glossily in the light, or if the colors would have only the faintest reflections.)
Doresain forces his attention back onto the meal. The rice is just about done, so he can begin steaming the vegetables, and then scrambling that egg. He will have plenty of opportunities for examining and interrogating the Bishop later. (He will, of course, be submitting a complaint to the staff at Mythag — this kitchen being a smaller one is no excuse for it being so poorly stocked. Absolutely dreadful.)
When the food is finished, Doresain carefully plates it. Salvador's plate is of course smaller than Doresain's own, with the scrambled egg being the biggest difference between the two plates. He sets the Bishop's plate down first, and then his own, before he, too, sits. "Do eat." He says, lightly. "It would be a shame to waste this meal that I made for you, no?"
Salvador bows his head. ". . .you are indeed correct, Lord Doresain." The faintest downtick of his lips, before the man begins eating.
Doresain takes it as his cue to begin eating as well — never sparing his attention from Salvador, of course. He's under no rush to finish his meal, and indeed, Doresain prefers to savor all his meals no matter how simply they may be made — which allows for the time to watch, and ensure that Salvador finishes his plate. They eat in silence, the two of them, but it is not an unpleasant silence.
With his meal finished, Salvador sets down his utensils and clasps his hands together before him, head bowing once again. "I thank you for the meal." He says, calmly. "Your generosity is appreciated."
Doresain does not scoff, though barely. "I find it an insult to be told that one does not allow themself good meals." His tone is light, as the mists that swirls around him ever-presently, but there is a very real steel within it. "If you have no love for eating, then I shall make it my mission to teach you to savor meals." His eyes close in a satisfied smile, his intent made known. Whether Salvador knows it, he has become a new fixation — he may not be a ghoul, but what kind of king would Doresain be if he did not help those who needed it, part of his kingdom by blood or not?
Salvador is incredibly still, where he sits. Then, he stands, slowly. "I thank you for your kindness," he repeats, "but I am sure your efforts would be best suited to your people. Pray, turn your mind from myself — the All-Father provides for me as it is needed. Others are more deserving of your efforts than I. Good day, Lord Doresain." He turns, and leaves the kitchen just slightly quicker than his normal walking speed.
Ah. It seems Doresain hit a nerve there. No matter — he will simply have to continue his efforts. Ensure that Salvador knows that Doresain's efforts are truly genuine. A smile forms upon his face, from where it had fallen. "What a fascinating man you are, Bishop Salvador." He muses. "What an interesting muse you'll be."
He already knows what he'll see: nothing, when he opens the door.
He lays down on his bunk, keeping his eyes closed. If he keeps them closed, he won't see his mother walk into the room with laundry on her hip. He won't see his childhood friends shoving each other and laughing.
He doesn't hear them because they're not there.
Nothing is. Not anymore.
(The tapping and visions go away when Miryam Awakens Celeste for him.)
thinking about it it's really weird that my closest brush with fame was for a pairing that was never my otp and which i've become brutally disillusioned with
