Chapter Text
i am so blind, i am so holy
i know all, but it’s you i don’t know
at the edge, i’m playing the music of heaven
but who the hell knows who i am?
“Would you mind if I sat here?”
Lon’qu has zoned out some time ago, half-paying attention to the heated debate between Stahl and Frederick on the merits of sword against lance on horseback. Heated on Stahl’s side only – Frederick seems to be regarding the younger man the way a grown snowcat would behave around a rowdy kitten. It’s rare to see Stahl more than half-awake, but horseback fighting, among very few other things, has this kind of effect oh him. Now Lon’qu snaps back in, the faded ambient noise around him growing sharper and less homogenous as awareness returns.
Libra is standing next to their table – next to Lon’qu’s bench, to be exact – with a soft, inquiring look on his face, as if it is a genuine question and not a polite formality. There is plenty of space on his bench for Libra to sit, but Lon’qu grunts and slides to the left, freeing up some more room.
“...Not if you consider how wide your angle of effective reach would be, and don’t even get me started on dual wielding – wait, aren’t you hungry?” Stahl, who only gave Libra a cursory glance before, now actually pauses the conversation when he notices that he has arrived empty-handed.
“Oh, I am, Stahl,” the man smiles. Like all Ylisseans, he pronounces the name with a st instead of the sht Lon’qu is used to, with a hard l at the end. “Sumia asked me to wait for a bit. I got delayed at the healers’ tent, but it’s nice to see that there is still company even this late into dinner.” Libra half-turns to Lon’qu and his still mostly-full bowl, his face a perfect display of humble appreciation. “Thank you for allowing me to share it with you.”
Lon’qu grunts again in acknowledgement as the conversation across the table resumes.
Lon’qu doesn’t like Libra. He doesn’t not like Libra, either – he just doesn’t know the man well enough to form an opinion, even though they’ve been traveling together for close to two weeks now.
Lon’qu knows that he is a man – a fact made worth noting by a fairly embarrassing incident – and that he is a priest, albeit the kind who wields a weapon as surely as a healing staff. He knows that Libra is entirely too devout and earnest to be in any way deceitful, and with how things have been among the Shepherds, the small group only just starting to heal from the world-shattering catastrophe of the Exalt’s death, Lon’qu frankly hasn’t had the time nor visible reason to take a closer look.
Libra hasn’t been mingling too much, locked away in some private universe most of the time – doing what needs to be done, of course, following orders and being useful, but always with this almost invisible layer of polite detachment. Lon’qu sees the ripples on the tranquil surface sometimes, wrinkles that warble it into something pained before being forcibly smoothed out. But he and Libra are barely acquainted, and even if they were anything close to friends, Lon’qu isn’t the kind to pry. He notices things, stores them in his memory, and lets go. It’s safer this way. Clean. If Libra is a private man – well, that makes two of them.
Sumia arrives in a whirl of faded silks, decorative feathers, and apologies. Lon’qu clicks his front teeth together – seven times, quietly and in less than a second, unnoticeable to anyone around him.
“Libra, I’m so sorry! We ran out of stew, and Miriel was supposed to make more but she ran off to uh, ‘write something down’, I think, and so I had to improvise a little – here!” Sumia plonks down a bowl in front of Libra, almost making the contents slop over the edge. “Oh dear, I’m so clumsy… Anyway, I’ve picked some mushrooms earlier, and Ricken was really helpful in sorting out the poisonous ones, so I threw this together with some more veggies – I hope you enjoy!!” She has to pause for breath here, anxiously waiting for the verdict.
Sumia is always so full of nervous, jittery energy, the same kind that plagues thoroughbred horses and hounds, Lon’qu has to wonder how she makes it through every day. Lon’qu could be almost tricked into believing that the anxiety he feels in her presence is simply a reflection of her own.
Libra glances at the steaming bowl and then back up at Sumia. His hands, Lon’qu notices, are deliberately relaxed, palms flat against the table. He thanks Sumia, and she rushes off, presumably to feed other stragglers.
Lon’qu returns his attention to the food and the debate. By now Frederick has already been goaded into a friendly match, a hint of something steely – threatened pride – entering his generally peaceful-looking stature. Lon’qu allows himself a smirk – with entertainment like this, it’s really easy to forget to actually eat.
A lack of activity to his right catches his attention. Libra is staring at the bowl with a slightly pinched expression on his face. Under the sheen of sunburn his skin has taken on a greenish hue.
Hm.
“A noble's cooking?” Lon’qu offers in what he hopes is easy to read as a joke.
“A deep trauma regarding totally-not-poisonous mushrooms?” Stahl chimes in, leaning around a now quietly fuming Frederick.
Libra glances at them, an expression of distress quickly pulled inwards and covered up with a smile. “No, not at all! No tragic backstory here, I’m afraid. This looks – wonderful,” another look at his bowl, and he turns even greener. “I just – have had an unpleasant experience regarding mushrooms. Recently. The memory is quite fresh, and I would rather not…” Libra catches himself and straightens up, prim and quietly mirthful again. “In fact, I think I’m not hungry. I would rather leave it for someone who might…”
“How fast can you eat?” Lon’qu cuts in.
Libra looks at him, momentarily startled – Lon’qu has been told, on multiple occasions, that his stare can be quite intense. “Beg your pardon?”
“How fast can you eat?” Lon’qu repeats, nodding towards his own bowl, cold but still mostly full – and completely devoid of mushrooms.
“Oh,” Libra follows his nod, whips his head around to where Sumia has run off. A smile – a genuine, surprised one – blooms on his face when he turns back to Lon’qu. “Pretty fast.”
Wordlessly, Lon’qu swaps their bowls, leaving the spoon in his, then takes out a pair of chopsticks and dives in. It’s not too bad. Lon’qu has eaten far, far worse, and anyway, food is food. “If you’re too slow, I’m not covering for you.”
Libra looks at him with the same unguarded smile, then mutters a quick prayer and starts demolishing his own food.
When Libra is done in less than two minutes, only barely outpaced by Lon’qu, Lon’qu mentally pauses until he can place the recognition. An ability to scarf down food like that without visible discomfort – it doesn’t come from a good life. He would know.
Lon’qu feels a belated prick of curiosity, berates himself for it, leans in anyway.