A Spoonful of Sugar (Big Bertrude, Hedwyn, 1024 words, worksafe)
happy molten crone summer and fourth anniversary for pyre, may our fandom stay hot and our crones hotter. special thanks to laughingpinecone for her help!
As the older often do, Bertrude gives her advices, as she is always correct. Recently, in cooking; Hedwyn cooks the most and they eat their silt as best they can, as there are only so many edibles in the Downside.
(ao3)
As the older often do, Bertrude gives her advices, as she is always correct. Recently, in cooking; Hedwyn cooks the most and they eat their silt as best they can, as there are only so many edibles in the Downside. But Bertrude knows the land better than the others could ever hope, knows the taste and texture of every flower, weed, reedy plant with strings that sing in the wind. She sits with Hedwyn in the kitchen, drinks a tea so acrid-smelling Hedwyn’s throat swells up and his vision swims. A mixture of mock bluegale and red riccums, both covered in an oil that would erode any other creature’s skin. Nomads need to develop a palate for poison, Bertrude has told him. There are many flavors that they could learn to enjoy, if they could avoid that whole death thing, first.
“Hnnnng… thou art using too much silt,” Bertrude tells Hedwyn, loudly slurping her tea.
“It’s silt porridge,” Hedwyn says, in a way that would be sarcastic if it was from anyone else. “I’ve added a little salazar salt, but it’s just made it more bitter. And a little… gelatinous.”
“Hnnng… allow us to get our reserves. We can make this palatable to those of weaker constitutions.”
Bertrude sets her tea on the counter and slithers off. Hedwyn does not take offense. He glances into her tea, something a sickly yellow with a layer of froth around the edges. Perhaps there is a dark movement at the bottom, but Hedwyn shifts his focus back to the bowl of black silt in front of him. Ah, silt. Simple, simple silt. Silt that can’t kill anything and wasn’t made from any arcane horrors.
Just a moment later and Bertrude returns. In her hand she has a long, thin weed, something covered in large bruising bristles that speak of suffering for any of those who touch it. She breaks off a few of the brittle bristles and drops them onto the counter next to Hedwyn.
“Soak them for thirty minutes,” she tells him. “Do not touch it with thine bare fingers before soaking, nor taste it. Inhale it and it will cut through thine body. Once it is soaked, mince, put in the porridge, and stir. It will be enough for everyone.”
Without another word, Bertrude slithers off again. Serious Bertrude was more game than she let on, but how much of a game would this be? Poisoning the whole team? Making them sick? Perhaps it is no game, but she is not ready to feed those who cannot swallow poison so easily. But still… They are a team, and teams are made of trust, and all he can do is trust.
Hedwyn takes a deep breath. If the Scribes are out there, please don’t let this be a mistake.
Hedwyn makes the porridge, but does not serve it. He paces in the main area and spends time thinking of how to explain it; many would not eat anything, knowing that Bertrude has touched it. It would be unthinkable to lie or keep it secret. But he has to know how to explain it well. And try it; he has yet to taste it himself. He must trust, he must trust, he must trust. This team will only work if they can trust. But no amount of trust can beat Hedwyn’s survival instincts.
But then, suddenly--a great call from outside the Blackwagon. Hedwyn looks in the kitchen; the porridge pot is gone. He bolts outside, oh no, oh no, my friends, all over again--
And everyone is eating with more enthusiasm than Hedwyn has ever seen. They cheer when he comes into view.
“Bang up job, Chum!” Rukey calls through mouthfuls of the stuff, one bowl empty, his second already halfway there.
Hedwyn closes his eyes and every stretch of tension within his bones loosens. Every thought of that time before fades away and is replaced with the trust is right. He joins the others and has a bowl of his own. It’s a flavor Hedwyn tries to comprehend with every bite--something on the razor’s edge of saccharine sweet and broiling bitter, but in a way that makes him want to shovel it into his mouth until he can’t eat anymore. He looks around for Bertrude, but doesn’t see her, and instead engages in the joyous eating with his comrades.
One the other side of the Blackwagon, Bertrude nibbles at her porridge. Hnnng… alright. One more leaf would have made it really something, given it a clarifying sharpness that would linger in one's mind and one's palate. But the weaker ones would bleed for days, so sacrifices must be made sometimes. Maybe next time she’ll teach them how to build up a poison immunity.
---
Stacks of paper cover every moment of Hedwyn's large wooden desk, and more stacks cover the floor. He has a knack for reading, Volfred had said, and gave Hedwyn the difficulty of reading that spoke to that, though Hedwyn placed more worth on the guidance and patience of the Reader than his own innate ability. How many tries it took him to write his own name… Ah, but he’s getting distracted. When he agreed to be the Harp Liaison, he didn't realize how much paperwork would be involved. More talking with the Harps, he had hoped, but it was taking awhile to get there. Half of his paperwork just covered incidents with the anti-Harp groups clashing with local authorities.
Hedwyn takes a sip of his tea, something brightly floral with just the right amount of bitterness. It had been a gift of some sort, something that hinted at peace from a defector from one of the anti-Harp groups. He takes another sip, then another, and then the door of his office slams open, and in runs a dark-haired Savage woman who is half-assistant, half-bodyguard.
"Mr. Hedwyn!" she cries, stumbling and slipping over the loose papers on the ground. "Sir, don't drink that! It's poison!"
Hedwyn looks to the brilliant red tea, then to the woman, then back to his tea.
"Oh, don't worry,” Hedwyn says, and finishes his tea. “I’m immune.”
