SNEAK PEEK

Archer realized he once again had nothing to do.

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He decided not to go back to camp and Fowl's terrible mood, so he stayed in the valley, opting to try a batch of frutelken. If he could just get it right this time, a sip of hot, spicy fruit drink might fill the empty feeling in his stomach.

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He knew well enough that their supplies were depleted after the refugees, but after all his hard work, Archer supposed he had earned one small batch of frutelken. And besides, something in the air told him tonight was the night. Maybe a miracle would happen and he’d finally get it right.

With enough digging through the sparse storehouses, Archer was able to find all the supplies he needed. The milk smelled strangely sweet, but it would do.

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The supply houses also boasted a tiny kitchen buried in the back, essentially only a stove surrounded by countertops and cabinets painted green. It wasn’t big, but since Archer didn’t have a handy little house somewhere in the hills like the centaurs, it was perfect. He deposited his supplies on the countertop and dug through the drawers and cabinets to find the pots and pans he needed.

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For half an absentminded second, Archer wished he had a jug of his mother’s frutelken to compare. Then he remembered.

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There would be no more of his mother’s frutelken. Not ever again.

The thought made him feel all funny in the head.

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Once he got the fire going steadily, Archer started chopping fruit to go into the pot. All the extras, the peels and the cores and pits, he piled to the side. Maybe Wick would find some use for them. If not, they’d stay there to rot. The knife felt strange and unfamiliar in his fingers, the handle thicker and the blade longer than the one from his mother’s kitchen. It didn’t cut quite the same.

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“What are you doing?” Wick’s voice asked from the doorway.

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Archer glanced back and saw Wick leaning in curiously.

 

“Trying my hand at frutelken again,” Archer replied. He remembered to watch the knife, just in time to avoid losing a fingertip. “I didn’t feel like going to sleep yet.”

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“Me either. I’m still not used to needing all this sleep.” Wick moved closer and surveyed Archer’s carnage across the counter. “I either sleep too much or too little. I can’t seem to find a balance.” He looked over at Archer and paused. “You have juice all over your shirt.”

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Archer looked down. The front of his white shirt had turned a sort of orange-brown. Looking at it, he became aware of it sticking to his stomach. “I don’t think I have any extra clothes left.”

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“You can probably borrow something from Eland.” Wick’s fingers tapped on the counter, then stopped. “Are you okay?”

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“Yes,” Archer responded, too fast. Drat.

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Wick caught the slip. “I don’t think you are. Not since you lost your parents and your home.” He paused. “Both homes.”

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Archer leaned forward and took a whiff of the pot. It didn’t smell nearly spicy enough. He pushed past Wick to grab the spices scattered at the other end of the counter. “It doesn’t bother me, really. I never liked living with my parents, and I never actually lived with my grandparents. I just liked it there.”

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“Still, losing all of that can’t be easy,” Wick insisted.

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Archer swallowed violently.

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Why did everyone insist he needed comfort when he wasn’t sad? Why was Wick always so pushy when he thought something was wrong? Why couldn’t anyone just leave well enough alone? Archer hacked into another peach with too heavy a hand. The counter shook from the force of the knife.

 

“Archer?”

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“I’m fine!” Archer snapped. “I feel fine. Nothing is wrong. Can’t you just accept that?”

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Wick blinked at his outburst, but recovered quickly. “No, I can’t. I’ve never known anyone in the world to lose everything you have and then be fine.”

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Archer stabbed the blade into the cutting board, where it stuck, quivering. “I haven’t lost anything, Wick. My parents and I were never close. I think the strongest feeling my mother felt for me was tolerance. I can’t even tell what my father thought of me. I could care less about their house, and I gave up my grandfather’s house by choice.” He gestured sharply to the stove, for no reason in particular. “I said I’m fine, and I am fine. If you’re waiting for me to shut down, like Fowl is, keep waiting.” Archer scooped up the whole double-handful of spices he had measured and dumped them into the bubbling pot. The frutelken would probably taste too spicy now.

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“Archer, really.”

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Archer spun around to face Wick. “Really, what? Sorry if you’re expecting me to be a mess of grief. Maybe I should be, but I’m not. Even if my parents never missed me when I was gone and never cared if I visited, maybe I should still feel terrible that they’re dead. Maybe I should feel responsible for what happened to the house. Maybe I should feel something, but let’s face it, I don’t.”

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As he spouted words, Archer watched Wick’s face go from surprised to alarmed to piteous. It only made him angrier.

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“As usual,” Archer snapped, “I’m the messed-up screw-up of a son who can’t just get it right. I can’t even lose someone the right way. I’m just the same as I’ve always been.” His voice broke, and he blinked, feeling a prickle in his eyes. How had he let himself get so worked up?

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“You’re not messed up, Archer,” Wick said quietly.

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“It doesn’t matter.” Archer turned back to the pot but didn’t stir it. He stared into the bubbling tawny drink. “Just change the subject. Please.”

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The following silence could have crushed a mountain. The density of it was suffocating.

“Just change the subject,” Archer repeated, with less force this time, and continued stirring the pot. The mix smelled almost right. Maybe he hadn’t put in too much spice, after all.

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“All right.” Wick leaned his back against the counter and crossed his arms. “I think Ongel will be all right. The dragonkin have as good as promised they’ll be out of Aro until our time is up, so he shouldn’t be in any kind of danger.”

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Archer nodded.

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“I am worried about my people, though. Twill said they’re all right, but no one has heard from them. They haven’t responded to any messages.” In the corner of his eye, Archer saw Wick cast his eyes toward the floor. “I just hope I’m not the reason they won’t reach out.”

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Archer didn’t know what to say to that. “Maybe they just don’t want to be a burden,” he managed after much too long.

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“Maybe.”

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Archer heaved the pot of frutelken off the stove and onto the counter. “Want to try it?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at Wick.

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“I think I would try snail slime if it would get my mind off the leshy,” Wick admitted. “Are there any glasses in these cabinets?”

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Archer opened every cabinet, but it appeared that the centaurs had not stored a single glass. He did find a stack of wooden bowls. “We’ll use bowls, I guess.” He handed one to Wick, then dipped another into the pot of fruit drink. Steaming overflow dripped down the side of the bowl, narrowly missing his fingers.

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Wick dipped his own into the pot as well. “Cheers.”

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The drink was still piping hot, but Archer took a cautious sip all the same. Immediate disappointment shot through his heart. The pot had smelled spicy enough, but after tasting it, he could see the volume of spices he had added only made the mixture bitter, and somehow the fruit added almost no flavor.

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“Excellent. Another waste of my time.” Archer set the bowl down and walked out of the storehouse.

Archer walked back to their camp and curled up under his rumpled blanket. After a few minutes of tossing and turning, he took the stick Ongel had given him from his pocket, and calm washed over him again.

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He fell asleep tangled in his blanket with his back to a tree and the comfort stick clutched to his chest.

 

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The next morning a familiar smell woke him. Face pressed against the ground, fingers clenching the rough stick, he struggled to identify the scent. So sweet and fruity, but with a heavy layer of something else. . .

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Frutelken.

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Mother?

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Archer sat bolt upright. His bleary eyes weren’t ready for the sunlight, and he winced as he tried to spot where the smell was coming from.

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Only a few yards away, the source of the scent hung over their fire. Wick leaned over a bubbling pot, stirring carefully. As Archer watched, Wick consulted a bit of paper by his side and nodded to himself. Then he picked up a stick lying on the ground beside him and poked at a few packages cooking at the edges of the fire.

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“What are you doing?” Archer rasped, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand.

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“You can’t smell it from over there?” Wick asked absently. With a deft turn of the stick, he flipped over a few of the things cooking on the coals, revealing their blackened undersides. “I thought this might improve your mood.” Wick reached for a stack of bowls at his side and used one to scoop up some liquid from the pot.

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Archer got up and edged closer. His eyes narrowed at the slip of paper. “I know that handwriting. Where’d you get it?”

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“Your mother gave it to me,” Wick said calmly. “After you wouldn’t take it, she gave it to me, just in case you changed your mind.”

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Archer drew back until Wick’s torso blocked out the recipe. “I still don’t want it. It’s cheating if someone else gives it to me.”

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Wick moved his elbow out of the way as the bowl threatened to spill. “Good, because I’m not giving it to you. I’m just making a batch for us to enjoy.” He held out the bowl. “Now, drink this before I make you.”

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“Whatever.” Archer snatched the bowl out of Wick’s hand, nearly sloshing it. The frutelken poured steam, even in the humid morning air. Barely sparing time to blow on it, Archer took a cautious sip.

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Fruity. Peachy. Thick and hot. Enough spices to nearly overwhelm the flavor. Frothy. Perfect.

Archer looked down at Wick again, about to say something, but forgot what it was as he saw Wick’s face. Lips pressed tight together, eyes screwed almost shut, Wick was on the verge of laughter.

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“What?” Archer barked.

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“You look like you might melt into a puddle,” Wick said with a grin. “Really, I’ve never seen you look this happy.”

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“Shut up. I’m always happy.” Archer took another long, slow sip of the frutelken, relishing the flavors as they melted in his mouth. “It’s the best taste in the world,” he said quietly.

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Wick scooped up a bowl for himself and took a sip. “It’s pretty close to hers, if I remember right. I’m glad it came out well.” Still holding the bowl, he prodded the packages cooking in the coals again.

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This was the part where one usually said something.

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“Thank you,” Archer managed stiffly. “It’s better than anything I’ve made.”

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“I’m glad it helps.”