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They woke to the scent of honey and cloves.
Hmm. Woke. Did they wake? Perhaps that term was improper. If elves did not sleep, how could they wake? Does one ‘wake’ from a trance?
Vaarsuvius’s mind was too groggy to supply a suitable synonym. Rose, perchance? Roused?
They roused to the scent of honey and cloves.
…Good enough.
The elf shifted, stretching the trance from their bones. Their spine readjusted with a crack-ACK, and relief came soon after. Faint pins and needles bloomed across their skin as their nerves regained feeling. As they twisted and writhed, a toe brushed the library floorboards—cold! Vaarsuvius snapped their legs back into their linen night-robe with a shudder. Curse their poor circulation!
Seeking respite from the floor, Vaarsuvius remained suspended in midair, reclining at a comfortable angle with their ankles crossed and arms folded. Their hair and bedclothes drifted about them, weightless. Though their drowsiness lingered, they mustered enough strength to open their eyes and gaze out the library window.
It was early. The sky was inky and near-starless. A few celestial bodies broke through the darkness, winking in and out sporadically. It wasn’t unusual for Vaarsuvius to break their trance before sunrise—there was always an arcane tome they needed to dredge through, after all. It made perfect sense to utilize the daylight to its fullest and let the midnight oil burn as long as it could.
Inkyrius was not of the same mind, of course. They indulged in long trances, eight hours or more, and often remarked how ‘well-rested’ and ‘rejuvenated’ they felt afterward. (Feh.) The cottage even held a properly furnished bedroom, similar to one that a human couple might share. It baffled Vaarsuvius. Four hours of trancing was all an elf needed; furthermore, magical suspension was obviously superior to a mattress piled high with downy blankets and pillows.
But the furnishings made Inkyrius happy, so Vaarsuvius entertained the maintenance of the useless space.
Fuschia eyes fell closed once more. Vaarsuvius took a deep breath through their nose, once more hit by the delicious smell of honey and cloves. It wouldn’t hurt to remain in suspension for a few more minutes, they supposed. Not when the cottage air smelled so nice, their robe was so warm, and a sweet, humming melody echoed through the halls.
Vaarsuvius’s ears twitched.
Humming.
Was Inkyrius awake already?
(...Awake? Did elves wake? Gods! Again with the blasted semantics! Curses and damnations abound, where was a thesaurus when an elf needed one?)
Vaarsuvius shook the thought from their head, hair floating about their face. The humming continued, cheerful and carefree. It was definitely Inkyrius’s voice, even though they normally tranced well past first light. Had something roused them from their rest? Their tune was steady and clear, free of the tremble that a sour trance-vision leaves behind. Still, it was strange…
No matter. Inkyrius’s behavior was of little concern, even when out of the ordinary. They were bound to Vaarsuvius by marriage, not by chain. They could each spend their time however they pleased. If that included an erratic trance schedule, so be it.
Vaarsuvius finally dropped their legs, ignoring the floorboards’ shock of cold as their bare feet touched down. With their trance fully broken, gravity reclaimed them; their bedclothes fell like drapery and their hair swished downward to brush against their neck.
Perhaps they should finally crack open that book they’d borrowed from Aarindarius, the one about transmutation spells. They’d been meaning to get around to it sometime, and they’d tired of their current readings.
“Familiar,” they commanded to empty air. “Fetch that book on the high shelf, there. The one bound in blue leather.”
Wings flapped and fluttered behind Vaarsuvius’s head as they stepped toward their desk. A book still lay atop it, open to a page detailing the ‘fireball’ spell. The elf’s lip curled at the sight. They slammed it shut and swept it aside, sending papers fluttering to the floor. The author’s grasp of evocation magic was confused and rigid, utterly lacking in practical application. What kind of imbecile would publish such cretinous drivel and dare to call themself a wizard?
The raven appeared with the blue-bound book in his talons. He dropped it atop the desk as Vaarsuvius took their seat. They didn’t bother thanking the bird. He faded into their periphery, and Vaarsuvius was soon dead to the world, absorbed by their research.
Chapter One: The Essence of Transmutation
Scritch-scratch-scritch. The etching of their quill droned on and on, their notes growing ever-longer. Sunlight broke through the clouds on the horizon, leaf-spots dancing across their parchment. Occasionally, pages turned.
Chapter Five: Polymorphing and Shapechanging
As Vaarsuvius went to read the first word of the new chapter, they paused. Inkyrius’s tune had changed. It was louder, faster. Less idle, more excited.
Vaarsuvius couldn’t help but smile, closing their eyes to listen. The melody was familiar, somehow, though they couldn’t quite put their finger on—
CRASH!
The clangor of metal rang through the cottage, followed by a string of Elven curses. Vaarsuvius’s train of thought jumped the track.
They leapt from their chair and crossed the library floor, night-robe swishing about their feet as they swung into the hall. Muffled by the cottage walls, Inkyrius muttered something unintelligible. Another crash-clatter echoed from the kitchen. This time it was smaller, softer, more controlled—perhaps a pan dropped into the sink.
The humming resumed.
Vaarsuvius slowed, relieved. The clamor mustn’t have come from anything dire, otherwise Inkyrius would have already called for help. They stopped in the middle of the hall, just before the kitchen doorway. Inkyrius didn’t need their Suvie, so Vaarsuvius was free to return to the library.
The saccharine scent of something baking wafted down the hall, and the wreckage of Vaarsuvius’s train of thought caught fire and exploded. All hope of productivity abandoned, they took the final steps toward the kitchen and peered into the doorway.
The sight that greeted them laid waste to their poor heart.
Inkyrius stooped over the kitchen table, brow furrowed in concentration as they passed an icing bag over a fat, doughy swirl sitting atop a plate. They were already dressed, though they’d neglected to tie back their hair, fern-colored locks falling about their face and over their shoulders. Every surface of the kitchen around them was covered in baking tins: on the table, the counters, the oven -- even atop the refrigerator!
Vaarsuvius stood, mouth falling agape in fond bemusement, as their mate stepped back to admire their work. The cinnamon bun before them was immaculately iced with a swirling design of leaves and flowers—perfect in every way.
All of a sudden, Vaarsuvius was in grade school again, mustering up the courage to speak to their crush.
“...I heard a crash.” (What a profound opening. They doubly needed a thesaurus now, if only to knock themself upside the head with it.)
Startled, Inkyrius jumped, their head snapping up and their tune halting. But their fright faded as they met their mate’s eye, and they flashed a warm smile. “Good morning, my Suvie,” they said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind their ear. The back of their hand smeared a streak of brown across their cheek—and Vaarsuvius fell in love with them all over again. “You’re feeling well-rested, I hope?”
“Indeed,” Vaarsuvius replied once they untied their tongue, nodding curtly. “But… the crash?”
“Oh! Never mind that, I just dropped a mixing bowl.” They motioned to the sink, where, indeed, a metal mixing bowl was sitting, dusted with flour and other dry ingredients.
“...Right.” Confusion must have been evident on their face, because Inkyrius set aside the icing bag and picked up the finished cinnamon bun.
“I wanted to surprise you with breakfast,” they explained, pressing the plate into Vaarsuvius’s hands. “You’ve got your nose stuck so deep in those books that you forget to eat. Thought I’d bring it to you in the library, but… well, now you’re out here. So… surprise!”
Vaarsuvius smiled. “Consider me thoroughly surprised. Though I must inquire about all the other trays?”
“Not good enough,” said Inkyrius, as though it was obvious. “I wanted this to be perfect.”
“Your baking is always perfect.”
“Not perfect enough.” Inkyrius folded their arms, smearing more cinnamon filling onto their apron. “Until that one you’re holding, of course. I’ve been up all night trying to bake the perfect batch.”
Vaarsuvius’s bow furrowed. “All night? Beloved, you need your rest! Preferably eight full hours of it, as per the Player’s Handbook!”
Inkyrius grinned, a playful glint in their eye. Their voice pitched downward in a teasing impression of Vaarsuvius. “Technically, I do not. Four hours is a perfectly acceptable amount of trance time. Besides, you know as well as I that elves do not need sleep as the other races do.”
Vaarsuvius flushed. They’d been outwitted. How dare their mate be so reasonable and clever, throwing their own sentiments back in their face! “Well- I- You still have to—”
“Shh. I don’t have to do anything.” Inkyrius nodded to the roll sitting in their mate’s hands. “Eat. Before it cools.”
“But, Kyrie, you—”
“If I knew earlier that you prefered frigid sweets, I wouldn’t have bothered baking these.”
Vaarsuvius huffed. “No, what I mean is—”
“Suvie.”
“My concern lies with—”
Inkyrius plucked the cinnamon bun from the plate and stuffed it into Vaarsuvius’s mouth mid-sentence.
Bursts of flavor filled their mouth, flowing over their tongue in waves. It was ambrosial: honey and cloves and nutmeg and cinnamon, earthy and warm, beautifully married with the cream cheese icing on top. The texture, too, was marvelous. Baked to perfection, the dough was thick yet soft, perfectly suited to the sensitive elven palette. Utter perfection.
Before Vaarsuvius could restrain themself, a noise of delight escaped their lips. Their ears perked up and their eyes widened as they chewed, and Inkyrius watched the display with a coy smile of satisfaction.
“You like it, I presume?”
Vaarsuvius nodded enthusiastically. Unable to reply with their mouth full, they wolfed down the roll in two more bites. “This is phenomenal!”
“Glad to know my efforts are appreciated.”
“Very much so,” Vaarsuvius said, licking sticky icing from their lips. “...Is this a new recipe?”
“It is! I’m glad you noticed.”
“Did you receive it from your master?”
“Not exactly.” Inkyrius took their mate’s empty plate and crossed the kitchen to drop it into the sink, abandoning all pretense of formal presentation. Vaarsuvius followed them like a pet on a leash. “Though I guess you could say he taught me what I needed to make it.”
“How did you come across it?”
“Oh, I didn’t come across it,” Inkyrius mused, leaning their hip against the counter as they faced their mate. A stray lock of hair fell into their eyes, and they brushed it back, further smearing the smudge on their cheek. “I developed it myself.”
“Did you really?”
“Is it that hard to believe?”
“Oh, no, Kyrie! Not at all!” Vaarsuvius eyed the unfrosted tray of buns on the table, one missing from the array. “I’m simply… very impressed.”
“Thank you. I’ve been tinkering with the recipe for a while now, so it’s nice to hear that my hard work has paid off.” Inkyrius followed their mate’s gaze. “You want another one, don’t you?”
“...Perhaps.”
Inkyrius chuckled, returning to the table. Vaarsuvius beat them there by a few moments, reaching for another roll. Inkyrius smacked their hand away. “Ah, ah! Patience, love. They need to be iced.”
Childish creature, impatiently demanding sweets! Vaarsuvius rubbed their hand, ears drooping in embarrassment. “Right. Of course.”
With their mate thoroughly scolded, Inkyrius retrieved the bag of icing from the table, then drizzled it generously atop the buns in the tray. They didn’t bother with the intricate pattern of the surprise bun, but Vaarsuvius didn’t mind. “There we go. Now you may take one.”
Vaarsuvius took a second bun. In an attempt to regain their dignity, they ate it slower than the first, savoring it to its fullest. “...Of all the recipes to perfect, why cinnamon buns in particular?”
Inkyrius shrugged. “You didn’t like them the first time.”
“Pardon?”
Once again, a lock of hair fell into Inkyrius’s eyes. Once again, they tucked it back. “It was before we started courting. I was smitten with you and wanted to catch your attention, so I made cinnamon buns and gave you one. You took one bite, said it was too doughy, and threw it away. Right in front of me.”
Vaarsuvius barely recalled the incident, but Inkyrius’s description was enough to inspire a full-body cringe. They were halfway to an apology before they paused, mind snagged on a detail of the story. “...Before we started courting? That must’ve been over thirty years ago.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware.”
“You’ve been working on this for thirty years?”
“Close to it.”
Vaarsuvius melted. They had been married for several years, yet the romantic gestures never grew old. “I’m… gods above, Kyrie, I’m speechless.”
Inkyrius laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with my Suvie?”
Vaarsuvius rolled their eyes, unable to help their fond smile. “Your Suvie is beyond touched, that’s all. And… very sorry about throwing away your first cinnamon bun.”
Inkyrius shrugged. “I knew how callous you were. Still are, even. If anything, it inspired me to make all these.” They swept an arm around the kitchen, at the small army of cinnamon rolls that covered every surface. “And I got you in the end, so I don’t really mind.”
Vaarsuvius’s smile widened. They stepped forward, using their thumb to brush the smear of filling from their mate’s cheek. “Sometimes I think you’re too sentimental for your own good.”
“Perhaps I am. But you love me anyway, don’t you?” Inkyrius stepped forward, wrapping their arms around Vaarsuvius’s waist and pulling them close. “Else we wouldn’t have wed.”
Vaarsuvius licked the filling from their thumb. Delicious. For a moment, they entertained the thought of hunting down the mixing bowl to scrape off what was leftover. But the temptation paled in comparison to their urge to drape their arms across their mate’s shoulders and gaze deep into those beautiful emerald eyes. “Of course. You know I do.”
Inkyrius ducked forward, pressing a gentle kiss to their mate’s lips. “Happy anniversary, Suvie.”
(Anniversary? Hm. It must have slipped Vaarsuvius’s mind. They’ll get a bouquet from the garden later.)
“Happy anniversary, beloved,” Vaarsuvius replied.
Inkyrius smiled. They leaned in for a second kiss, longer than the first. When their lips touched again, Vaarsuvius’s head swam with the warmth of cinnamon and honey. The warmth of home.
“It’s a wonder your hand hasn’t seized up and fallen off by now.”
Vaarsuvius glanced up from their parchment, quill paused mid-character. Haley stood at the door of their quarters, hip cocked and arms crossed. An easy smile played on her face, and attached to her belt was a bag of holding. “I mean, God. I’ve been standing here for two minutes, and you’ve already filled three whole pages.”
“Four, actually.”
“And that doesn’t hurt?”
“If I had any qualms about copious amounts of writing, I would have changed classes half a century ago.” Vaarsuvius set down their quill, casting a disdainful glare at the green cloak resting on the bed. “Likely to barbarian, as it appears to be the most brutish and least intellectual. Perish the thought.”
“Stretching helps!” squawked Blackwing from his perch on the desk. “Wrists and fingers! Though I gotta keep reminding V to do it.”
“Which doesn’t grow grating at all,” Vaarsuvius muttered. “Not one bit.”
Haley snorted, pushing off from the doorframe. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
Blackwing cocked his head, feathers rustling. “V stretching?”
“No, birdbrain. V as a barbarian.” Haley crossed the room, dropping her hands to tuck them into her pockets. “Vaarsuvius the skull-crusher, a berserker on the battlefield with a wickedly sharp axe! Clutching the entrails of your enemies and covered in blooooooood,” she droned. “I can hear the war cry now. Raaagh!”
“Please. That’s completely unrealistic.” Vaarsuvius gathered their parchment in a neat stack. “I fancy myself as having more of a morning star persuasion.”
Laughing, Haley swept Vaarsuvius’s scrolls aside and sat on the desk. “Okay, well, take your morning star persuasion and look at what I got you.”
She unhooked the bag of holding from her belt and dropped it in front of them. Ears perked up in curiosity, they pulled it closer. “You bought me something in Tinkertown?”
“Sorta. Grabbed them when I got brunch with Elan and Bandana this morning.”
Vaarsuvius shot her a look. “Was this preceding or following your skirmish with the golem?”
“Hey! Not my fault that a recurring villain decided to make a scene!”
“And earn you another level.”
“I say once more: not my fault!”
Rolling their eyes, Vaarsuvius opened the bag and peered inside. “...What in the name of…?”
“Lemme see!” cried Blackwing. “I wanna see! What is it?” He took to the air, fluttering about his master’s head. Vaarsuvius waved him away, lip curling in annoyance.
“Calm yourself, you infernal avian! I cannot see inside with your feathers in the way!”
Haley smiled, reaching out a hand for Blackwing to perch on. He landed, and she scratched the top of his head. “They’re gifts,” she explained. “Not sure if they’d be good for a raven, but I figured V would appreciate them. It is supposed to be your anniversary today, right, V?”
Vaarsuvius didn’t respond. They stared into the bag of holding, brows drawn. “...There… there must be three dozen in here—where am I supposed to store them?”
“Keep the bag. I’ve got, like, twenty. Just give it back when you’re done, okay?”
“I…” Vaarsuvius looked up, unable to express their overwhelming gratitude. Silence hung heavy in the air as they struggled to find their voice. Haley reached over and clapped a hand onto their shoulder.
“Don’t mention it.” She gave a firm squeeze. “If you need me, I’ll be above deck with Elan.”
Haley set Blackwing down and slid off the desk, turning to leave. As she reached the doorway, Vaarsuvius tried once more to voice their feelings. “...Thank you,” was all they could muster. It was inadequate, but Haley seemed to grasp their intent. She paused, glancing over her shoulder.
“Do me a favor and don’t eat them all at once. Can’t have you and Blackwing getting airsick, now can we?”
Blackwing squawked, feathers ruffling. “Hey! I take offense to that!”
But she was already gone.
The raven huffed, hopping over to the bag of holding and sticking his beak inside. “What’s in this thing, anyway?”
“Get out of there,” Vaarsuvius scolded, tugging the bag away from their familiar. “Your feathers will get all sticky, and then you will whine and cry until I clean them for you.”
“I won’t! Promise! Just lemme see what’s inside!”
“...Fine.” Vaarsuvius held open the bag and turned it toward Blackwing. “Got an eyeful?”
Blackwing peered into it, then sat up straight and shook out his wings. “Yes, thank you.” He fluttered up to Vaarsuvius’s shoulder, nestling into their cloak. “I just don’t get why Haley brought you a crap-ton of pastries.”
“That is none of your business,” replied Vaarsusius, tugging the bag’s drawstrings shut. They retrieved their quill. “Now either shoo or quiet down. I’ve got to finish copying this spell, and I won’t stand for any further distractions.”
Blackwing grumbled under his breath as he ducked his head down to preen. Vaarsuvius dipped the tip of their quill into their inkwell, tapping it to be rid of any excess drippings.
They finished the spell with one more page. Blackwing continued to fuss and preen at his feathers, so Vaarsuvius moved on to the next one in their book. Their quill scratched out Common and True Tongue characters for hours, until their candle burned low and the sky finally slipped into the inky darkness of nightfall.
When Vaarsuvius finally finished, Blackwing was snoring softly, eyes closed and beak nestled into his feathers. Their window of privacy was fleeting—they would have to act fast if they wanted to avoid the halfling retiring to bed before they could finish.
Vaarsuvius set down their quill, closed their inkwell, and set their drying parchment aside. Listening for the creak of footsteps outside, they slowly opened the bag of holding and reached inside.
The cinnamon bun was lopsided, first and foremost. It was drenched in glaze, creamy white and dripping off the sides. Its top was overdone and its bottom was faintly soggy. The filling was barely enough to give a hint of cinnamon, a whisper of spice amidst sickeningly sweet dough.
But even so, as Vaarsuvius gingerly lifted it to their lips and took a bite, it almost tasted like home.