[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."
Salvador pauses, in the midst of tending to his garden. The flower petals resting lightly on his fingertips (ungloved, for this is a rare moment of solitude, a rare time when Salvador need not fear any seeing the scars upon his hands and being repulsed by them) are soft, and have a slight give beneath gentle pressure. The scent of them is faint, something delicate — Salvador crouches down (carefully, carefully, tail pressed against the ground to brace), and lowers his face to the petals. There's a slight earthy undertone to the scent, something sweet and floral and hauntingly familiar.
He hums to himself, softly. Where has he known that scent from? Perhaps he should ponder it further, but there are other plants to tend to in the garden — and, though he may be an Awakener now, Salvador's knees do still somewhat ache with age. Best to get off the ground. He goes about the watering and checking various plants — other flowers, bushes, and shrubs are all carefully tended to. It's not particularly hard, but it is calming. A steadiness, a gentle sigh of an afternoon. He thanks the Father for these moments of calm — they are much-appreciated, and Salvador is always grateful for times when he can simply be.
Clicking, muffled through walls. The soft creaking of the garden door as it opens, and the sound of footsteps — soft tramping upon the earth — growing louder. There's an accompanying noise of the soft rustle of fabric, and a noise that Salvador has learned is that of long hair, swaying in motion.
"My dear Bishop." A familiar voice purrs, cultured and even. Ah, it's Doresain. The voice alone would have given the other man away, but the brilliant pearlescent soul makes his presence unmistakable.
"Lord Doresain." Salvador acknowledges, turning to face the king as he tucks his hands into the wide fabric of his sleeves. (Best not to let the man see his scars, quiet yet. Salvador would not want to upset him.) "Did you have need of me?"
"Nothing so grand, I assure you." Doresain moves closer, enough that Salvador is achingly aware of how short the distance between the two of them is. "I merely wished to enjoy your company."
"Is that so?" Salvador replies, evenly. Beneath the heavy fabric of his cassock, his tail curls around his leg, gripping almost tightly. (He would not want Doresain to trip on the limb, after all, with the way the man seems to walk on his. . . toes? Salvador is not entirely certain of the shape of the man's legs, only that they seem to have holes, and are long and tapered. Heels, perhaps?)
"It is." Voice curling in what Salvador would call affection were he brave enough to dare — Doresain's voice is low, and quiet. Fitting, for the space they are in, and matching Salvador's own. "Shall we sit? I ensured there would be food — tell me, Bishop Salvador, have you yet eaten?"
Salvador allows Doresain to gently grasp him by the arm and guide him towards the table nestled further within the garden. It is. . . comforting, that Doresain would guide but not force — that Doresain, aware of the limitations of Salvador's gift from the All-Father (for, though his sight of souls is strong, it cannot capture everything that Salvador's vision had held, when he was living stil), is considerate enough to allow Salvador the choice of when to rely on outside aid. "I have not eaten in some time." He admits, tail curling just a bit tighter.
Doresain hums, clearly displeased, but no admonishments spill from his lips, nor any sighs of upset. He merely reaches, pulls something from the basket he had taken with him. "I had planned for such." He says lightly, setting a plate and some pleasantly-scented meal upon the table. "The choices of food will be kind to your stomach, my dear Salvador, so please do eat." The man leans forwards, just slightly, and though Salvador cannot see, he still feels the weight of Doresain's gaze upon him. "I do so enjoy seeing others partaking in meals I've made for them."
". . . If you insist, Lord Doresain." Salvador does not give voice to the apprehension within him (though the man had denied it, surely there was something he wished from Salvador? Was it truly so simple as watching him eat and enjoying his company?) and instead reaches forward. It's a simple sandwich, he discovers with some light exploration, and Salvador will admit . . . he does enjoy the flavor of it, simple as it may be.
The mist swirling around Doresain thickens, waxing and waning like a strange tide. Never enough to overpower Salvador's sences, or be unpleasant, but present nonetheless. He pauses, in the midst of eating. Ah. That is why the forget-me-nots had been so familiar — it is that very same scent that is held within the mist made from Doresain's soul. (How fitting.)
"Bishop Salvador?" A note of concern in Doresain's voice. "Is aught amiss?"
"My apologies." Salvador shakes his head, slightly. "I merely recalled something." He resumes his meal, and Doresain resumes his watching. (It would feel off-putting, for any other to rest their gaze upon him for such length — but somehow, with Doresain, it merely feels peaceful.)
It is only after Salvador has finished eating that he recalls that his hands have been ungloved this entire time — scars on display. Ashamed, he moves to return his hands to within the cassock sleeves, so as not to burden Doresain with the sight any further — but Doresain's hands reach out, one grasping each of Salvador's. Lightly, but the cold is enough to bring Salvador pause.
"May I?" Doresain asks, low and quiet, almost hushed. "Forgive me, but I find your scars to be rather beautiful."
It takes moments to find the words, choke down the blood and memory of smoke filling his lungs. "I am. . . grateful that you would be kind with your words." He makes no move to pull away. If Doresain believes such — if he truly believes such — then Salvador. . . well. It is not being selfish, to allow the other man to look, to let his hands rest within that cool embrace. It is a kindness, to allow Doresain that sight, to grant his request. (It is Salvador's duty to alleviate the suffering of others, under the All-Father's teachings, and if allowing Doresain to hold his hands will aid the other man, then any comfort it brings Salvador is merely a secondary aspect of such a thing.)
Though he cannot see it clearly, Salvador imagines that Doresain is smiling when next he speaks. "Thank you for your kindness, my dear Salvador."
And so. . . they sit like that, in the garden. The soft afternoon slowly melting around them, scent of forget-me-nots ever-present, as they exist in quiet companionship.
Doresain is not most fond of sunlight, and he will readily admit such a thing. Being a ghoul as he is, sunlight is too harsh on his eyes (better suited for dreary evenings or days with low light levels), nor is his skin suited for the sun's rays (he burns terribly, despite being half a corpse, and it's really quite unpleasant). All the same, Doresain is aware that his dislikes and discomforts are not necessarily commonly shared, particularly in the case of Awakeners who lean more towards the human state of being.
An example, most notable in Doresain's mind, being his dear Salvador.
The man claims to be at ease, visiting Doresain in Necrovia every so often (always at Doresain's invitation and request, of course), but Doresain had, in a frantic fit of terror upon seeing Salvador collapse to the ground, researched quite heavily what humans and lizards needed to be kept in good health. (Even now, even knowing that as a fellow Awakener his dear Bishop will not truly die, Doresain cannot shake off the clinging whispers of terror, spiderwebs tangling up within his mind.) So it was Doresain, who ensured that Salvador ate properly, and Doresain who decided that if Salvador could not visit in Necrovia for long periods without ill health, then Doresain should visit Salvador, in Londnium.
(He's quite grateful for Mythag's assistance in managing Necrovia, while he's away. Fran keeps the city-state running smoothly, but with an Investigator or two among the ghouls, Doresain is reassured that any minor threats would be dealt with — and any major threats, well. He'd know to deal with those himself, wouldn't he?)
A parasol in hand to shade his skin and eyes, prosthetics covered by a pair of elegant pants in place of his preferred shorts, long sleeves and gloves carefully arranged to hide Doresain's inhumanity — with effort, Doresain can pass as a human. Enough to not attract a second look. While Doresain could always visit with Salvador amongst Mythag's halls, Salvador does love his church dearly, and how rude it would be for Doresain to pull the man away any time that Doresain desired a visit. No, it is much less fuss and effort to simply don a slightly altered outfit, add a parasol to his grasp, and lounge his way through Londinium in efforts to spend time with his beloved bishop. Sometimes the best meals are the ones that get a bit of extra preparation, even if made from simple recipes.
Salvador needs the sunlight. Doresain reflects. It does him well. Being as lizard-like as he is — which is to say, being lizard-like at all — gives Salvador a higher sunlight requirement. It's important for lizards to have a proper source of sunlight lest their scales suffer, and while Doresain isn't quite sure whether or not Salvador is cold-blooded, the sun's warmth can hardly be a detriment, especially as the weather edges colder towards fall.
"Don't mind me," he assures Salvador, lazing about in a small chair present in that outside garden that the church held, parasol providing enough shade that Doresain feels comfortable leaning back, somewhat. The light is still quite strong, but it's dimmed enough by the parasol and the few clouds drifting above that Doresain can still see relatively well.
If Salvador is bothered by the weight of Doresain's attention, he does not show it — he simply continues tending to the small plants within the garden. It's not a grand thing, the garden, not like that garden room on Mythag's campus, but the variety of growing flowers and other vegetation is much higher. Idly, Doresain wonders if it might be a community garden, meant to grow food for the less fortunate to eat from. It would certainly fit with the nature of the church, and with Salvador's own kind nature.
Still. The logistics or reasonings behind it are of no import — Doresain simply sits there, in the late summer warmth, letting the day while by, letting himself enjoy the simple pleasure of another's presence. (And perhaps tomorrow, he will have to return to Necrovia, or perhaps he can persuade Salvador to pay a visit to Mythag's halls with him, but — ah, either way, Doresain will treasure this time spent. Immortal they both may be, there's no shame or harm in enjoying the small moments spent with another, is there?)
Doresain is silent, as he carefully unwinds gauze from the larger roll. Though Salvador can't see the man's expression (the All-Father provided, but sight of the soul did not convey the fine details of facial expressions), Salvador knows from the heavy silence that the other man is. . . displeased.
A slow, heavy sigh. "I do wish you wouldn't do this to yourself. But I understand your faith compels you to strip yourself to bone for the sake of others." The man's voice is low, and elegant, but there is a tight tension in it. His soul, silvery-hued and pearlescent, wavers as the man's emotions shift and settle. He raises Salvador's wrist, cold lips pressing gently against the thin-but-deep cut. There's a soft sting of pain, at the pressure, but Salvador dismisses the pain with practiced ease. What can't be so easily dismissed is the cold of Doresain's lips upon Salvador's skin, the cool mist falling around Salvador and Doresain both. The kiss is not gentle but it is tender, moreso than Salvador might have thought the other man capable of, had this been those months ago when first they met.
Salvador keeps his silence. How to reply to those words, spoken with such a mournful tone? (For all his knowledge of mourning and death, Doresain is a man who sounds mournful only rarely — hearing that tone to his voice, seeing the way the man's soul trembles with it, is something Salvador knows not how to reply. Is he to be understanding? Forgiving? Apologetic? It is easier, with others, but the All-Father's guidance fails Salvador when it comes to the other man.)
Doresain pulls away, briefly, and when next he speaks Salvador can hear the smile. "I have a request of you, Bishop, if you'll indulge me?"
"Of course." Salvador replies, evenly. The faintest increase in pressure, as Doresain's fingers tighten just slightly, above the open wound and pressed over old, faded scars. "All aid that you may need, I will gladly give."
A laugh. The soft susurrus, as Doresain shifts, long hair rustling against draped clothing and skin alike. The mist's thickness increases — Salvador swears he can taste it on his tongue. (Like the dew upon grass in the morning, or the fog of graveyards late at night — this mist, too, is familiar as Doresain is, halfway visible with how much of the ghoul's soul seeps into the mist itself.) "You understand that I am a ghoul. I am no stranger to blood or bone — I merely ask that, should you once more cut into yourself and sacrifice flesh and bone for others, you come to my side, to allow me to dine on whatever is left." His fingers loosen — his fingers press just above the wound, and Salvador feels more strongly the pain, feels the welling of blood from the cut, feels the way the blood beads at the edges of it.
"Is it merely blood and bone you request?" Salvador rumbles, and Doresain throws his head back and laughs.
"No! I would take whatever you are willing to give, my dear Bishop, but I know you well, so I will ask only this — allow me to drink what blood flows freely from your wounds, and no further. A good king does not demand more from his subjects than they have to give — though a subject of mine you may not be, such principles are easily applied elsewhere, would you not agree?" Doresain's soul is alight in brilliant silver, those pearlescent colors shifting and dancing in a way only Salvador (and, perhaps, the All-Father) might see, and it is. . . beautiful.
Rustling fabric, soft humming. Cold, stiff, corpselike lips once more pressed against Salvador's wrist, just above the still-bleeding cut. The pressure of Doresain's fingers has lifted not an inch. "So, dear Salvador," Doresain murmurs, low and quiet in the evening air. "Will you grant me this request?"
". . . if it is within my ability to aid you, then I shall do whatever is required of me." Salvador swears he can taste something bitter and faintly floral on his tongue, as he speaks. Each inhale brings lungs full of that mist, ever-present around the King of Ghouls — cold, cold, cold enough to chase away the choking smoke that fills Salvador's lungs when his thoughts stray too far to that terrible, terrible night.
The curl of Doresain's lips is easily felt. (Pain is a familiar companion, but touch from another — even now, even now, Salvador cannot help but be attuned to every point at which Doresain's skin touches Salvador's own. Fixated upon the fingers and lips on his wrist, fixated on the way that Doresain's chest leans so closely towards Salvador's own, the way that Doresain sits near enough that Salvador's tail could drape over the man's lap if he wished — he wouldn't, he wouldn't, for Salvador would not impose upon the man that way, but he sometimes wonders.) "Many thanks, dear Bishop." He laps at the wound like a parched man laps at an oasis — Salvador cannot help but shiver at the sensation, unfamiliar and at the same time almost pleasant. Strangely, the pain seems to numb. Salvador finds himself almost dissappointed, when Doresain finally pulls away.
"Will you come to me, after you aid others?" Doresain asks, conversationally, as he finally begins winding the gauze around the now mostly-cleaned cut. "I'm afraid I do need a promise."
"I promise that I shall seek your side, to aid you, as you wish." Steady, steady. Salvador betrays none of his emotions within his voice — only calm, steady certainty. If he may aid Doresain by allowing the man to bind his wounds, then even if it makes Salvador shy away, want to insist that others are more deserving of that attention, then he will do so. (Perhaps, the man's attention has grown. . . comforting, to Salvador. Months of time spent with another, even in small moments, does make a sense of familiarity, of companionship.)
Snipping, the rustle once more of fabric against fabric. Doresain sighs, but a satisfied sigh. (Though words could not explain, Salvador has taught himself to discern the different. . . flavors, he thinks Doresain would describe it, of the man's sighs and soft noises. Much meaning is found in the things left unsaid, with Doresain.) "Thank you." Cold fingers finally, finally leave Salvador's wrist, though Doresain does not move far from Salvador's side. "If you are not opposed to it — sit with me, for some while?"
The subsequent silence is soft, but not unpleasant. Salvador finds it comforting. (It is. . . a good evening, all considered.)
