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“What a joy to be eating with the real you instead of a fake, hm, four eyes?”
I push aside a piece of asparagus on my plate to get to the ham underneath, impaling it on my fork. Only then do I even begin to consider what Ubel just said to me. She's like a clingy toddler that does nothing but emit noise. She’d been talking my ear off all the way from my village to this restaurant in a city we’re passing through, and even with a hot meal in front of her, the concept of silence eludes her.
“How exactly did you get your clone to consume food back in Äußerst anyway? I can’t imagine that was an illusion as well, given that it was brought out by restaurant staff,” she continued, wearing the same sly smirk on her lips she always does. I wait for her to busy her mouth with a sausage before I speak, so that I’ll have at least a moment of peace before she responds again.
“What good would knowing that do you?” I ask, my eyes never leaving my food.
Her response comes in an instant and with a mouthful of food despite my efforts; clearly, she’s never heard of table manners.
“Curiosity is lethal .”
For her, perhaps. For myself, and most other normal individuals, being a pest isn't necessary for survival. I simply continue eating, and in response leave her with a small grunt that signified I heard her (albeit unwillingly). While I do, I keep my gaze on my meal— something Ubel doesn’t mirror. Her eyes are trained on me even as she works her way through her own.
I don’t have to look up to know. At this point, I can feel it.
“Do you favor asparagus? You’re always ordering it.”
Fittingly, her dreaded, inescapable query comes just after I eat one of three stalks in the dish I ordered. It’s less so a preference and more so something I grew used to eating over the years. As a child, there was a time I'd single out the bitter vegetables from pickiness the first few times my grandmother made meals containing them. It’s strange to look back on such memories, since most foods I was particular about ceased to be so bad somewhere during my adolescence. I hardly bat an eye at lentils anymore. Setting an example she’d do well to learn from, I finish chewing before I speak.
“Somewhat, I suppose,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of potato with my fork and dipping it in Hollaindaise sauce. “I don’t much think about it. If it seems like a balanced meal, I’ll order it.”
“How pragmatic; I’m not too fond of asparagus myself- or carrots, for that matter. Meat is much tastier and fills your stomach much longer,” Ubel mused as she caught the other sausage on her plate with her own fork, holding it up in front of her and inspecting it as if it were some artistic mental exercise.
“That, and onions. And a nice, creamy gravy,” she adds, turning the fork over.
“Funny. I took you for the type to hate vegetables.”
Ubel’s gaze shifts from the sausage to me, and her idle smile shifts into a more intentful one— similar to the zany grin she often donned in combat. She gets similarly wound up for anything else she enjoys, like a blood-drunk hyena. Funnily enough, she yaps just as much as one too.
“Flattered, but I’m not so picky. Besides, onions are a reminder of home for me— their taste is just a nice bonus. Can you comprehend that sentiment, four eyes? Being taken back to your childhood in an instant?” She teases, her smirk much more open now, yet still not quite reaching her eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose.
“I know what nostalgia is, Ubel,” I retort flatly, unsure of what she’s getting at.
I almost try to figure it out, but stop myself before I can start. It’d be a fool's errand and entirely in vain. After all, Ubel is always getting at something, and I rarely know what. She has this uncanny way of blending intentional dialogue into mindless blather to try and bait me into giving her more information about myself. It’s always paired with some unsettling, unwavering stare. It agitates me sometimes, and disturbs me most others.
Ubel places her fork down, leaning back against her chair. “Really? I assumed you were too much of a shut-in to have any real memories of your hometown, Mr. ‘I don't have any particular attachment to this place.’ Can’t say you’d be the type to have any meet-cute first dates either…”
“Don’t mock me,” I warn, and it’s a good thing the cutlery and tableware are wooden; otherwise, my fork would’ve scraped across the plate and made a most unpleasant sound. “You don’t know anything about me, or the life I’ve led.”
“I'm hurt, four eyes. I was under the impression you'd poured your heart out to me at that gravestone,” Ubel sighs, looking incredibly proud of herself, and I make sure to shoot her a rude stare. She doesn’t react, and so I have no choice but to assume she doesn’t care. “I concede, and only jest— I'm sure you've some precious recollections of sitting at home, stirring sugar into your tea with your favorite tea spoon."
“Instead of spending all your time trying to make a play at my ego, eat your food. Don’t you like sausage?”
Somehow, that’s what gets her smile to drop, and she takes a defiant bite of her now lukewarm food. The grilled skin crunches somewhat as she chews, still staring at me. Amidst the usual unease of being relentlessly ogled, there’s something imperceptible about her mien. Ubel is an enigma most days in any case, but at certain times, I’ll feel that there’s something off. I despise the fact that I can’t tell what. Often, she appears to look through me just as much as she does at me.
This is precisely the reason I prefer using clones. That way, I’ll survive, even if those knives she calls eyes bleed me dry.
Ubel idly pushes around the contents of her plate, either full or simply bored. I suppose it could be both.
“In truth, I was looking forward to having a taste of their Rinderrouladen. The rumors all said it was divine,” she started, a smirk working its way back onto her face. “I wouldn’t have ordered this if they weren’t out of beef.”
“Is it so paramount a thing?” I comment— only to prevent her from pestering me to talk later— before taking a bite out of the final stalk of asparagus in my food. All that's left are a few, sparse potatoes.
“I simply felt in the mood for some nostalgia,” she explained, seemingly pleased at my engagement in the conversation. As if I had any choice in the matter. One way or another, she’d force dialogue out of me.
“We aren’t here on leisure, you know. We’re merely passing through to get to the Empire.”
“I find I work better with a nice reminder of home. My sister used to make it allll the time…” Ubel drawled, raising the meat she had skewered on her fork to her grinning lips. “Takes me back.”
At that, I pause briefly, processing her words. Ubel is such an incomprehensible maelstrom of death, bloodlust, and insanity that I can’t possibly imagine her having something like family. Anything besides magic and murder, really.
“You have a sister?” I ask, for some odd reason.
Her reaction is instant, her grin widening as if she struck gold. She probably did, in her own maladjusted way. Straightening herself and averting her gaze from me for once, she placed her elbows on the table, her chin perched upon her hands like a bird. I must seem like a neanderthal for eating with such a person.
“An elder one, yes. She had her own recipe for the dish. It was simply to die for— and I don’t mean that figuratively. I’ve never tasted rouladen quite like hers anywhere else, so I suppose it’s an impossible find. Still, it’s nice to have reminders now and again.”
As she spoke, her voice was lilted, just as always— but mixed in was a hint of wistfulness far too human for the likes of her. It's uncanny. I doubt she's even capable of such a sentiment.
“You make her sound like a memory.”
“Haven’t seen her in ages,” Ubel sighs out, finally finishing her sausage with the same soft smile she's worn throughout her entire monologue. Pointedly, all the carrots on her plate were left untouched next to the stollen she hadn’t finished.
I set my jaw, still for a moment, before I occupy myself with a piece of potato. As much as Ubel talked, it was never about herself. Maybe she’ll ask if I’ve always been such a downer, that I must be fun at parties, but never anything about herself. The prospect she might have favorite foods, a hometown, a childhood… It’s almost absurd. Laughable.
It’s unfathomable why she’d tell me any of this in the first place; it isn’t as if I can bring her sister back. I don't know the woman, and I don't care. Is it some twisted way of paying me back for telling her about my grandmother? Perhaps she feels we've grown closer for that lapse in composure that she herself coerced out of me. Anyone would've done the same in such a situation; I could only assume her intentions were of malicious origin back then, and I value my life over secrecy. It’s maddening how little thought she gives to any given subject. No sense of tact, self-preservation, or demurity.
...Still, I suppose I can understand the sentiment somewhat. Asparagus is far from my favorite thing to eat, despite my general lack of preferences when it comes to food. But, they’re nutritious, and they were one of the cheapest crops sold by the town farmer. Just two copper pieces for a bundle bigger than both my hands— enough to last us a month. I could probably hold two in just one hand, now.
I dare to glance up and meet her eyes that still observe me. Her fixation is something I could never understand. It’s almost a shame— her interest is wasted on my disinterest, and I really couldn’t care less whatever troubles lie behind those lilac daggers. Whatever lies inside her. For unlike her, I haven't the desire to become more 'intimate' about anything.
“... Do you ever miss her?”
“Hm,” Ubel hums, amused. “More than you know, four eyes.”