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The forces of chaos at Faurin did not fall easily, but Altina’s army does not shy from a challenge. For Altina herself, the only challenge she will run from is the inevitable celebrations and congratulations of her soldiers – the war is not yet won and she does not wish to grow complacent. Soan and Dheginsea are of similar minds; Lehran said it won’t rain tonight, so they light a fire and set out bedrolls on the soil, padded with the needles of evergreen trees, and breathe in the scent of pine that lingers in the air.
Archers and spearmen have caught a few large boar-like creatures that roam these northern woods, but Ashera’s Three Heroes insist on taking dinner by themselves. It’s not that Altina dislikes the army cooks, but she places greater confidence in a campfire roast and her friends. Besides, eating outside the mess hall means Lehran does not have to leave her side, and a meal with her three favorite people on Tellius would be worth more than a seven course supper at court.
“This tastes like shit,” Soan declares, glaring at the strip of meat in his hand.
“Unfortunate for you,” Dheginsea replies. He’s lounging against a log, long since finished his own dinner and using his roasting stick to dry his boots. “Maybe you should be a less picky eater.”
Altina twists her skewer to char the other side. “I like it, actually. I wouldn’t mind some of this even when we’re not on the road.”
There’s a mutter from Soan that sounds suspiciously like “beorc.”
“You will eat anything,” acknowledges Dheginsea, nodding in Altina’s direction.
“Not anything,” she insists. “Just more than you lot.”
A moment of quiet descends on their campsite, forest crickets and a hooting owl the only sounds beyond the constant crackle of the fire. When she removes her branch, the meat sears her fingertips, so she settles for biting it straight off the stick and catches Lehran giving her a vaguely disconcerted look. It’s the opposite of tender, but the flavor is unique, and Altina has never been one to shy away from new experiences, especially when she’s hungry after a long day of battle. She finishes the strip in silence, then: “what is it, though?”
Soan roars with laughter and Dheginsea slaps the ground beside him as he laughs. “Not a clue, Altina,” the dragon says, and Altina joins them in their humor.
“Oh, this reminds me,” says Soan, reaching behind him into his pack to pull out an oblong shape roughly twice the size of her fists, “I found this in those Faurin storehouses the other day. Nothing else like it was in there, but it was piled on top of some plantains and other fancy fruits. Anyone got a guess?”
Altina holds out her hand, ready to catch it. Tiny bumps cover the surface, but it’s hard and doesn’t yield to her nails.
“A kohil,” Lehran says, his long hair whispering against her arm when he leans over to look. “They grow in warm, humid places, but they are quite rare. A kohil tree will produce one fruit every few years or so.”
She turns her head towards him. “You have them in Serenes?” she asks, and when Lehran looks up she doesn’t miss the faint upturn to his lips.
“Yes. I don’t believe kohil grow anywhere else.”
“We’re missing the important question, which is: can we eat it?” Soan throws his stick into the fire and grants Altina and Lehran his full attention. That’s not quite correct, Altina thinks; he’s granting the prospect of more food his full attention, but it’s close enough.
“The skin is very durable, designed to protect it from its drop from the tree and impatient scavengers,” Lehran says. “We can’t break it in beorc forms, and even with talons, beaks, or claws it requires patience.”
Gently, Altina places the kohil in Lehran’s lap and stands, ignoring the protests from her sore limbs. Her footsteps are soft on the pine-needled ground until she reaches her pack and withdraws Ragnell from its sheath.
The perk of Soan’s ears is practicably audible. “Altina, what in the name of –”
She thrusts the sword into the soil, far enough that she is confident in its standing integrity, and returns to her seat, Ragnell’s tip imbedded at the middle point in front of her crossed legs. Dheginsea has leaned forward, watching her with keen red eyes, while Soan stares in bewilderment as she plucks the kohil from Lehran.
Slowly, she draws its skin across the edge. “Fancy fruits have nothing on swords blessed by the Goddess,” Altina says, grinning at the smooth split from where it touched Ragnell.
Soan swears in admiration. Dheginsea raises an eyebrow at him. “Children of reason, indeed,” he observes.
Lehran is watching her. She focuses on the repetitive movement of splitting the kohil’s skin from top to bottom in neat, even lines, further apart at the center and coalescing at the tips like vertical seams on a lady’s corset. With a strip of the shell pinched between her thumb and index fingers, she pulls it back, exposing the pale green flesh, then takes her flipknife in her left hand, cuts out a slice, and hands it to Lehran. His eyes are green, green, darker than the kohil fruit but lighter, too, when she meets them with an offer in her own. He’s refined and careful as he takes it and sucks the remaining juice from his fingers with a slow precision that has Altina raptly watching his lips over the pounding of her heart.
Soan coughs. “Still here.” Altina shoots him a dirty look and cuts a smaller slice of the kohil to try, popping it in her mouth with absolutely none of Lehran’s grace and then makes a rude gesture at the lion.
It isn’t sweet. The fruit is sour and not as soft as she expected, and she pulls a face. Dheginsea chuckles. “So much for Altina, eater of anything,” he says.
Altina ignores him. “More for you,” she tells Lehran, giving him the briefest of glances before slicing out another piece of kohil.
She eventually tosses Soan and Dheginsea a bite each, but they enjoy it even less than she did – meaning, of course, that Soan had very vocal disagreement with it and Dheginsea spit it into the fire. It’s no great loss, though, because it makes Lehran laugh, and when the fire putters into darkness and she’s set up the heron’s tent, Altina’s dreams under the starry sky are not of steel on steel and blood, but of a birdcall, high and clear.