Time on the run means beggars can't be choosers— But with both feet firmly on the Monastery flooring now, days passing as peacefully as he's known them, that's no longer the case. This may be no land of milk and honey, rife with its own struggles, but being able to choose between the whole wheat bread with the sunflower seeds and the white fluffy loaves cut into slices in the morning is a luxury he scarce would have thought of just years before.
Edward likes the meat pies, hearty things, or nutty pastries— Though, those are hearty too, aren't they? Micaiah knows he likes those, too, her watching him just as he watches her; Or maybe she just knows, as she tends to know. He doesn't mind. He doesn't mind, especially not when it comes in the form of skipping to the cafe, or sharing meals, or being presented with a delicious birthday cake. He reads Nolan and Leonardo's letters, too, combing through the words, watches Sothe slink off with his lunch trays. Watching, learning about all of them, really, how peacetime makes them soft. He turns the people he loves about in his hands, in his mind, and they continue to glisten in ways he's never known, in ways he will continue to love.
So what does she like? He's known a lot of things about Micaiah, the first frissions that appear in her composure, the things that make her laugh, where she likes to linger when she's tired or, the way she gives and gives and gives, always. But what's her favorite flower, animal, food?
Maybe he has a good idea of the latter, at this point. In the kitchens, the smell of butter, olive oil and garlic fills the air as Edward tilts a hot pan, shifting its contents, idly sucking a burn on his ring finger. Tomatoes and onions slosh in response, behind him at the ready: Basil, thyme, cheese... He's no master chef, but he's picked up one or the other thing, and he's not too chicken to scoot out of his comfort zone. Give him a moon, and he's sure he'll be frying with the best of them.
Another burn (hot!), an eager invitation and a hand playfully tugged along later, there's oodles of noodles stir-frying alongside the sauce, finally poured—carefully, don't smear it—into a shallow bowl to serve, garnished a pinch of shredded leaves, basil stuck alongside. Edward steps back, observes his work— And grins. Looks delicious. Smells delicious. He sneaks a noodle from the main pan. Tastes delicious! That's right, take that, a measly few bowls of pasta could never defeat him! Plates are piled along his arms, secure despite everything, spiriting the dishes out of the kitchen and onto the table in front of Micaiah.
Knowing her, she might have seen this coming. Even if she hadn't, she probably smelled it. He hopes the star-shaped novelty noodles still delight her.
Honestly, he just hopes-knows she'll like it, and he can make it better every next time he does this.
A salad bowl's the final dish placed before he flings his arms up, cheering. "Happy birthday!!!"
Micaiah spends the morning of her next birthday early outdoors (and for once next is a word she thinks of with deferential wonder rather than terror; for these celebrations Fodlan have given her ground her in even the sharpest of this land’s terrors), reading in the greenhouse and out in the courtyard
(Inside her satchel is a carefully wrapped journal she looks at throughout the day, copying from it into her own notes. Other books brought with her are ones from the library on plants and stars).
Toward midday the smells from the kitchen have her move closer to the rose gardens. She takes tea there, after having snuck into storage with the key she had from chores that week and if she sees a certain someone along the way, well, he seems happily enough engaged in his work that she doubt he minds.
There are no secrets here, no need for them; queen she may be but without Yune she realizes she is so very human. Just like every other laguz and beorc. She had not thought it a gift at first, but a loss; now, things are different; part of the notes stretched out in front of her are the names and birthdays of her dearest people and she knows she is not the only one who keeps track of such things.
She sighs and breathes deeply of bergamot and thinks of being among and alike.
The sun is her companion as much as ever but she swears the rays shine brighter for her when Edward greets her, the smile of accomplishment on his face is all the gift she’d ever need - but pulled along as she is, her stomach does growl at the clever blend of smells and the chatter of her dearest friend.
“Eat with me,” she insists between a mouthful, it comes out choked (hot! He did so well with the spices, Micaiah was unaware she even liked these but, yes, she loves them), and already there is a glass of water waiting for her. She drinks it down than splashes some playfully Edward’s way.
“Or you can just watch me, I suppose,” she says, taking a smaller bite this time and letting the satisfaction show fully on her face, “but keep me company will you?”
There will be more times like this, in Daien, perhaps not with the same spices (but she will see about talking to Queen Nailah about her stock) and not with the same amount of sun shining through gilded windows but there will be warmth. In the land of snow and crags where they were born Micaiah knows with Edward by her side, there will always be that.
