🎣 for barnabos? :3
🎣-- A scene that's a close call
A/N: You know, I reblogged that post intending to make some short blurbs out of it, maybe 500 words or so. And I totally intended to stick to that. Brainstormed a bunch of quick little action prompts for this when trying to pin down a spark of inspiration... and then had the biggest brain idea ever and went from a short action scene to 1.9k of just pure stupid. Whoopsie. It's fun though. Silliness with Barnabos below -- enjoy!
It'll be a glorious day when hardtack finally exits your life, and never returns.
You understand its purpose, of course. On the sea, there's only so much food to go around, and most of it is liable to spoil without a good bit of preparation. Truly, you do understand. But there's only so much Ancient Estuary can do for a lump of flour and salt.
It'll be a glorious day indeed, but in the meantime, you'll take what you can get… and all things considered, this is pretty damn good.
The kitchen isn't exactly your home, but with so much of the cooking crew out ill from the weather change, you all but leapt at the opportunity to lend a hand once the head chef caught wind of a particularly robust shoal of cod. One more set of hands in the kitchen means that you get to eat just that much sooner, after all.
You angle your knife, dragging the sharpened blade along the body of the fish to rid it of its scales. Those shimmering blues fall into the trash below as you work, draining the heavy bucket that's been so kindly lined up for you as you work through each and every fish. Again and again you repeat the action, tossing fish after fish onto the heavy pan before you.
While you weren't opposed to gutting them yourself if need be, you're grateful that the process has been so streamlined. The boy -- Roland, you believe his name was? -- had done the messier of the work for you prior, leaving you to descale, fillet, and then dredge half of the catch in the batter. They key word being half, of course -- he works at the other remaining half even now, his own clumsy hands awkwardly holding the knife as he attempts to clean them in the same manner as you, although it's clear that he's far from experienced with a knife. You see why Barnabos picked him as his trainee -- you have to admit, he's a little endearing.
All the fish finally cleaned up, you drag the tip of the blade along the underside of the fish, place it back down on the tray, and grab an egg from the basket on your left. Your mind swims with half-baked calculations -- 200 men is a lot, sure, but a simple dredge shouldn't take much, no? How many eggs would you need? 10? 50? 100? You're immeasurably thankful for the good harvest the chickens brought unto you all today, but you can't be sure as to how long the prosperity will last. And you're not too keen on wasting food while in the middle of nowhere.
You crack the large, white egg on the counter, rending a satisfying crack down its center, and let the contents fall into a steel bowl. Best to go one by one, you decide -- see how far you can stretch an egg before you need to use more.
You're so caught up in your thoughts that you don't even notice Barnabos's watchful eye upon you.
But what don't miss, however, is his hand on yours, just as you move to toss the broken shell.
Your heart leaps into your throat when he grabs you, and you almost flinch back in surprise, but you can't move more than an inch before his other hand wraps around your elbow, locking you into place. His hand cradles your own, pushing your fingers back inwards and into a loose fist, and while his touch is gentle, there's a stiffness in his movements that betrays that softness, and instead gives rise to…? You can't quite tell, but frankly it's hard to truly care, because what the fuck?
"Barnabos! Gods, you scared the everloving fuck out of--"
"Aye, and you should be right glad I did, then," he interjects, "Hasn't anyone ever told you?"
He leans down, making direct eye contact with you, and his grip tightens ever so slightly in warning. His eyes are wide, pupils constricted in free-flowing adrenaline, and that's when you realize it isn't anger in his gaze, but fear. True, honest to Gods, fear. And that's enough to make you relax in his hold, and let yourself be moved by him. He guides your hand away from the bin to instead rest over the counter, and its only once he's sure that you've decided to follow his lead, that he releases you. Silence rings out as you wrack your brain for what could have possibly sparked such a reaction… but ultimately, come up empty.
There's a tinge of shame in your voice when you give out a quiet "No?"
His grave tone makes you think that perhaps whatever THIS is is some sort of common knowledge, but oddly enough, he seems to relax at your admission. His face relaxes, nodding to himself with a sigh of what you can only interpret to be relief.
"Right, right. Easy mistake that is, the people on the land don't tell you much, now do they?" He drops his voice to a low murmur, talking to himself for a moment: "Miracle anyone makes it on the waters, respect for the sailors just gone through the floorboards and died on the bed, ain't that just the way?"
But before you can really process anything he's said he's clapping you on the back, grinning down at you. "Knew you weren't like Mr. Jornir. Now, I want you to listen carefully."
He puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you back towards the counter and points at the halved shell that rests upon it. He stands so close that it's hard to think straight -- right hand on right shoulder, just close enough to the air shift in the space between you when his chest rises for a breath -- but if he notices your reaction, he doesn't comment on it.
"Now, you might think this is just an eggshell, but you see this?" He picks up a half, pointing into the hollowed out shell. You peer in, but see little more than shell and membrane -- you furrow your brow in confusion, but nod nonetheless, and he seems pleased with your observation of… egg.
"This," he gestures, "this is the number one, by far, greatest cause of misfortune in the seas. Now, we can't control what people do on land, but we can control what we do, here. And the only thing we CAN do, is to smash 'em to bits. Now, I prefer to do it with me hands, but when you're working with so many of 'em, might be best to save em and break 'em up at the end to get it all done at once." The shell rolls into his palm with a single flick of his fingers, before being crushed within his fist with a dull crunch. He flexes his hand a few times, macerating it further, before he opens his hand back up to show you the remains. Little white shards of varying sizes litter his palm, staring up at you.
No matter how hard you look, you still have no idea what you're supposed to be gaining from this.
"Now this one isn't quite done, because you see this?" He picks up a shell that, frankly, looks exactly like the rest. "Throwing this piece away will doom us all. Still too good of a vessel, you see?"
"Uh huh." You don't see at all actually.
"Dangerous, because it looks just barely good enough to bin, but only the best of witches could use this. The right one finds it, and we'll be crushed by a roaring tempest so fierce, that even the mercy of drowning in the waves would be too far out of reach. If we don't crush these, then WE'LL be crushed by the most wicked of evils, and not a single one of us would stand a chance."
You blink, furrowing your brow again as you look between him, and the shells, and back up at him.
"What."
Yeah, you have no idea what the fuck he's talking about.
"It's a lot to take in, I know, but it is very, very important that we get each and every one of these right. We cannot let a single witch find one of these, because she will, beyond shadow of a doubt, doom us all." He crushes the remaining shells in his hand, before gesturing at the other half on the table. "Now come on, you try."
You do another glance at the eggshell and back at him, but all he does is look on with a firm nod. You absently wonder how the hell you got yourself into this, and make a mental note to ask Jornir if he's also received the same treatment considering Barnabos' earlier mumbling, but eventually decide to simply swallow your confusion and do as you're told. You pick up the shell and crush it in your palm, grimicing at the cold, slimy remnants of albumin as it clings to your skin, before opening it back up to look at the remnants. It's certainly eggshells, alright.
Although again, you're not quite sure what is and is not good enough, so you decide to just crush them more. It seems that was the right call, as Barnabos lets out a laugh, squeezing your shoulder. "Aye, that's it. Always best to be sure before you toss 'em. Too many overconfident cooks in the world, moving on before the job's done right. But there ain't no going back on a mistake like that, not a chance."
You nod thoughtfully, pretending like you have even a half of a clue of what he's talking about -- why witches would want eggshells, or how they'd get access to them while you're in the middle of the ocean is completely beyond you… but it seems important enough to him that you find yourself wanting to do it right, even if you don't quite understand why. And so you macerate the shells, only tossing them once he gives you a firm, proud nod.
He pats your shoulder one last time, grinning down at you joyfully, before returning to his portion of the kitchen. "We'll make a cook out of you yet. Anytime you want to work in here, you're welcome, you hear? Doors are always open."
You watch him go, head spinning with equal parts confusion of what the hell just happened, and a strange, warm feeling that you struggle to identify. You look down at your work station, and its only then that you realize you already miss the warmth of having him so close. Strange. You smile to yourself, shaking your head as you return to your task -- this time, being sure to eviscerate each and every shell. You're not a cook, and you're not a sailor, but today, you are. And well, you suppose it's only right to play by the rules of the trade.
The rest of the afternoon is spent running back and forth around the kitchen -- the prep work done, there's little more to truly be done on your end, but you find yourself enjoying your time with the triton. You've only just barely begun to know him, but the man bleeds a type sincerity that's hard to come by, in a way that makes his special intersection of ruggedness and care painfully charming.
Maybe you'll take him up on that offer. Couldn't hurt to learn a few more tricks of the trade… superstition, or otherwise.