Soft and Hurt

He'd had very few occasions to visit the dungeon before, but the state of the place lead further credence to Lauritz's words. Bel-Tasar could smell old rot and mildew and moss, surely the product of centuries of disuse. He felt layers of grimy dust shift and slide under his hooves as he followed his three new charges out of the dark.

The three of them did not speak to him further, though the one who had released him from the cell walked most easily of the trio, laughing at Lauritz as he gesticulated at the strange wood-and-metal staff she had slung across her back. The other man seemed to be trying to placate Lauritz, his words easing the crease from his brow.

As the small group emerged from the cold and damp dungeon and into the cool and dry evening air in the palace's courtyard, Bel-Tasar breathed deep. The outside smelled much the same, but absent of people, absent of the humming activity he had been accustomed to.

Not completely absent of people, though. Lauritz called out in his language, and Bel-Tasar forced himself to pay attention once more. There was a camp of sorts set up in the courtyard, gathered around one of Elu-Seru's favorite garden pavilions. It seemed that without her care, the garden itself had not survived in the dry heat, and he had to suppress another keening and drag his attention towards the group they now approached.

There were four waiting, sitting on squat stools around a crackling fire. Lauritz motioned for Bel-Tasar to wait, and he waved his other three companions over to the camp. "I will introduce everytone," he said. "However, we must do something about your language. I will not translate every word."

Bel-Tasar nodded. "Those who made me were of a similar mind," he said. "One of the intuitions I was gifted with--it allows me to learn another's language if I listen to them speak for several hours."

Lauritz's eyebrows raised, giving him the look of an incredulous hawk. "Intuitions?" he repeated, slowly, as if the word was not known to him. "There was no mention of--" He cut himself off and muttered in his own language. "It does not matter. If listening to us speak is all that you need, we will speak. Now, come."

He beckoned, and Bel-Tasar followed obediently until they stood mere yards from the campsite. Lauritz first gestured to him, speaking in what seemed to be a preamble before saying his name. "Bel-Tasar," he resumed. "This is my group. I am Lauritz Altholm. This is my friend Keld Frank."

A man of similar age and fair skin to Lauritz waved one hand, his freckled face jolly and looking interested.

"Ziri and Titrit of clan Jlassi." A pair that Bel-Tasar took to be siblings, both dark of skin and hair, the first sitting forward with interest and the second lounging and plucking an instrument that resembled a curvy lute. "Ziri is a surgeon, and Titrit plays music."

"Francesca Paz Gama and her wife Prani Chacham." The woman who had unlocked him from the cell, sitting with her strange staff across her lap, and another woman regarding Bel-Tasar with suspicion. "Francesca is a..." Lauritz made an annoyed sound and gestured vaguely at her staff. "There is not a word for it. Archer. You will see later. Prani makes our maps."

"Wilky Hale." A large and imposing figure, who seemed to be the tallest of the group but nevertheless head and shoulders shorter than Bel-Tasar. "They are a shield-bearer." Wilky Hale shouted something that the rest of the group seemed to find funny, and Bel-Tasar was put somewhat at ease by the laugher and relaxing of postures.

"You are not of use to us until you can understand us," Lauritz said, turning back to Bel-Tasar. "Tomorrow, you need to do nothing and listen to everyone talk. The day after, I will tell you our plan."

"Thank you, my liege," Bel-Tasar said, bowing his head. "I appreciate this opportunity. But I must ask, before the evening is over, that you allow me access to my chamber. I must retrieve my arm and my clothing."

Lauritz looked to the darkened sky, and Bel-Tasar followed his gaze, his heart calmed further by the familiar moon and stars. "Not tonight," Lauritz said after a moment. "It is too dark. After you can speak to everyone, someone will take you."

"I understand." He didn't like it, but he did not have to. His liege's command was absolute. "I will be patient. Thank you again, my liege."

Lauritz fixed him with an expression that Bel-Tasar could not identify, then went to join the rest of his group. Bel-Tasar approached with caution, and when none of them reacted with fear or hostility, he took a seat on the edge of the garden pavilion, a feeling of purpose returning to him.

---

The camp remained active for quite some time. Everyone seemed relaxed together, despite what seemed to be great differences in culture. Bel-Tasar had rarely been able to meet visitors from outside the empire, and those few he had cause to spend time with acted radically different from the family and palace staff. Much seemed to have changed during the time he slept, and perhaps not all of it was for the worse.

One of the Jlassi, Titrit, was tending a cookpot over a fire, and as she lifted the lid a meaty, spicy aroma filled the air. Bel-Tasar leaned forward with interest. He had always been a favorite of the kitchen staff, being seen as someone who would try new flavors and textures without complaint. The spices were strange to him, but not entirely unfamiliar. With a metal ladle, Titrit gave the pot a few stirs, then clanged a wooden spoon on the metal in a clear announcement that the meal was ready.

Bowls were filled, and Bel-Tasar noticed with disappointment that there were not enough for him to have a helping. That was of no consequence; he did not need to eat, truly. He could not help fixing the pot with a yearning look, wishing he could have a taste. And when he realized Titrit was bringing a bowl over to him, his ears perked up.

"Du kan også få nogle," Titrit said in the language all of them seemed to share, setting the bowl down next to him on the pavilion. "Jeg har ikke noget imod at vente." Her eyes trailed down from his face, and he followed them, looking at the scarred stump where he had once lost most of his right arm. "Så, hvordan skete det?"

"Thank you," Bel-Tasar murmured, dipping his head in thanks. He did not know what she asked, but he lifted the bowl with his left hand and brought it to his face for a sniff. Up close, he saw chunks of meat and some vegetables, with sprinkles of greens, in a deep brown sauce. The smell was exotic to him, but it reminded him of his favorite cook's stew, in several ways. His tail swished in anticipation and he carefully tipped the small bowl to his mouth, careful not to scratch the metal with his teeth. The taste was rich, and his tongue tingled, and he hummed appreciatively and couldn't resist pouring the whole thing into his mouth.

Titrit clapped her hands and looked up at him with delight, then accepted the empty bowl and hustled back to the cookpot. Bel-Tasar licked his lips of the last remaining sauce, slowly chewing the tough meat. He did not wish to use up all their resources, but if he could get cooking like this every once in a while, he supposed that would make his heartache a bit lesser.

As the night passed and the group began to settle down, he began to pick up on some words and phrases as they were used. He heard "riffel" connected with Francesca's strange staff, and supposed that was the name for that style of weapon. A few more hours of hearing them talk, and Bel-Tasar imagined he would be able to speak with them easily. It would certainly make thanking Titrit for the meal less of an ordeal.