Chapter ?: Bread and Bad Times

It was a warm, lazy, golden day in late summer, and he found himself alone again with Eva. There was little to do and fewer people willing to do things, and Eva dismissed everyone but a skeleton crew until the evening dinner rush.

The thick kitchen door was propped open to the wide, grassy alley to let in any whisper of breeze that chanced to pass their way. The dark ceiling beams and fragrant bunches of drying herbs only added to the feeling of sleepiness. Summer sunlight inched across the cool limestone floor, the only thing besides him and Eva to move in the breathless kitchen. They stood side by side, content in mutual silence. Somewhere outside, Calen, Eva’s brother, was unloading a delivery wagon.

Tobyn liked kneading bread. The simple repetition, the intentional movement, the gratification of seeing something come together under his fingers, it was something he never expected to enjoy.

The massive workbench he stood at was developing a wobble. One leg was ever so slightly more worn than the other three, and dipped each time he pushed down too hard on the dough.

After one particularly heavy jolt, Eva looked up, askance. “We really need someone to fix that. It’s going to drive me batty.” Her colorful hair wrap sat loose over her wilting curls, and her hands were coated in shaggy biscuit batter.

“I don’t mind it, actually,” he said, pushing down so it rocked again. “It helps me keep time.”

“Time to what?” She turned to the deep basin behind them, cleaning her hands as well as she could. He was used to her questions by now, having learned that it was genuine curiosity rather than prying nosiness. She wanted to understand for the sake of understanding. He’d also learned he didn’t mind answering.

“Old marching songs. They get stuck in my head sometimes.”

“I can imagine.” She smiled at him as she returned to the bench and traded the bowl of batter for a tray of rising biscuits, coating them generously in butter and flaky salt. “I heard you humming one a few weeks ago and it was days before I was free of it.”

“The tune is the tolerable part.” Tobyn grimaced. “The lyrics on the other hand…”

“Would they shock my delicate female constitution?” Eva sighed teasingly.

“A highbrow lady such as yourself would need a fainting couch.”

The delicate highbrow lady next to him snorted. “I’m sure.”

“Honestly? I didn’t like them. They made me feel dirty.” There he was, oversharing again. Why was it so easy to do around her? “So I came up with my own.”

“About what?”

He shook his head, embarrassed.

She laughed. “Oh, come on, now’s not the time to be suddenly tight-lipped!”

“I’m no poet.” He protested lamely, kneading with renewed vigor.

“Nor is anyone else around here,” she plopped a biscuit down on the tray. “Yet somehow we’ve managed.”

“Look, I’ll make you a deal-”

A crash from the alley shook the rafters. Tobyn jumped, landing heavily on his hands, squashing the bread against the bench. He squeezed his eyes shut as his heart thundered. It was only a crate, he told himself, it was only a crate and I am safe here. Some skittish part of his mind didn’t believe him. He couldn’t keep the memories out. Catapulted boulders shattering the earth in front of him. Sieged walls crumbling in earth-quaking defeat. Coffins of his brothers dropping into graves. He couldn’t save them.

“Tobyn?” Eva’s warm hand brushed his white-clenched knuckles.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax. He looked down at Eva, gathering himself for an apology.

Her hazel eyes pooled with sadness as she gently squeezed his hand. She sighed. “What did the world do to you?”

“It wasn’t the world that changed me.” He couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him. He didn’t deserve the pity etched in flour-y streaks across her forehead. The rosemary butter coating her fingers made it easy to slide his hand out from under hers. “I did what I had to do.”

Calen appeared in the doorway. “Sorry about that.” He said, lugging a wooden crate of vegetables inside and dropping it against the wall. “I could use a little help bringing the rest in.”

“I’ll-”

“I can do it, Tobyn, it’s fine. Those need to go in the cellar anyway.” The cellar meant stairs. More pity. Eva wiped her hands on her apron, then tossed it on the table. “Keep at it, that bread isn’t going to knead itself.” She grabbed the crate and dragged it back outside. He heard her scold Calen for bringing it indoors, and her brother’s annoyed defense.

The dough, under his rough kneading, was starting to turn gummy. He tossed more flour on it, only to have it fly up in his face, coating his nose and throat. Coughing, he stepped back onto his bad leg. Sharp pain flared from ankle to hip.

That was the last straw. He chucked the offending loaf across the table with a solid smack, turned, and limped through the swinging doors to the dining room. Ignoring the scattered greetings from patrons and employees alike, he left the Reeling Spoon and started the long walk home. He knew he wouldn’t escape the memories there, or the guilt, but at least he wouldn’t be haunted by a certain pair of wide, compassionate eyes.

He didn’t deserve her kindness.

//

[read the beginning of Tobyn's story here: Chapter 1: The Broken Soldier]

I tried keeping this under/at the 650 word suggestion but the story got away from me by about 300 additional words!

Thank you to Belle for hosting another challenge! You can find the rules and other amazing entries here.