thecapitol | supper's on the table

Aside from learning that they shared a name - further proof that this guy was probably awesome, as far as Sam’s concerned - Sam hadn’t said much that wasn’t about the food they were cooking.

Now that they’re done, though, and Sam’s arranging some of it to look a little more tempting, he glances over at his new cooking partner.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

Sam's singleminded and businesslike in the kitchen - he knows his way about by now, and he shoves his stepstool around with efficiency. He'd been pleased to find someone to cook with, truth be told; he's done much of his own cooking since coming here, and it's good to find someone not just content to let the food appear, as most do.

He glances up from the plate he's heaping with vegetables - the tiny, artfully-arranged portions that the Capitol's chefs favor having always been baffling to him - and smiles. "My old Gaffer taught me," he says, with ill-concealed pride. "Or, he taught me the way around a kitchen when I was only just big enough to lift a pan with both hands-- and I did the rest, I suppose."

And with a glance at the plate (which can barely contain the portion on it), he adds offhand, "Is that enough, you think?"

Honestly, Sam's been doing pretty much the same himself. It's not that he doesn't trust the food cooked by the Capitol staff - except for the part where he doesn't really trust it - it's mostly just that he's used to cooking for himself, and it feels weird doing otherwise.

He can't help but smile at that pride, even if he doesn't quite understand the term, because that's the same way he feels about his grandfather showing him the way around a kitchen. "Gaffer?"

That question makes him grin a little, eyeing the plate. "For that one, yeah. But there's no rule here saying you can't add a second plate to it."

Sam grins at that-- "You'd do well among Hobbits, you would, Mister Wilson!" --and reaches for another plate.

As he's loading that one up, he adds, "Aye, my Gaffer-- that is, my dad. Made me both a gardener and a cook, though he's more keen to let me take over the kitchen than his flowerbeds."

A pause-- "And what's that you're finishing over there? I think you told me the name of it, but it's gone right out of my head."

"Now that is a hell of a compliment," he says with a grin. Not that he really knows all that much about Hobbits - except that Sam is one, and is proud to be one, and apparently they know a thing or two about good food. That's enough for Sam.

"Ah." And another smile. "He sounds like a great guy. It was my grandfather, and my mom, for me."

At the question, Sam looks down automatically. "Barbecue porkchops," he replies. "I don't think I managed the sauce quite as good as Gramps, but that's because he never would tell me what the secret ingredient was."

Sam could expound at length about all the Gaffer's virtues, he being the third-most virtuous Hobbit who ever lived, in Sam's estimation - right behind Mister Bilbo and Mister Frodo. (Putting them in order of virtuousness was a philosophical exercise that took him months to put to rights, when he first became aware of the need for it.)

--But in this moment, he's distracted by the barbecue porkchops, which smell wonderful, in an unfamiliar way, to him. They make beautiful food here in the Capitol, but he's never smelled anything quite like this.

"Taught you to cook, and never gave you the secret!" he says, with real regret, leaning over the plate as though he could see with his naked eye what's missing. "Why, it seems to me the secret's part and parcel of the teaching, ain't it? He must have been a right suspicious sort, your grandfather."

Sam laughs, soft and easy. “I think it was mostly a training exercise,” he replies. “He wanted to see if I could figure it out myself the way he did, back when he was my age. Probably doesn’t have any doubt I’ll figure it out one day.”

Except now Sam’s here, and before that there’d been a long time where he was physically there but not really there. But that’s a little too depressing for right now, so he leaves it at that.

Food. If there is one singular thing Karkat appreciates about being here, it's the ready access to good food. After three years of living off what the alchemiters and shitty coffee machine could spit out, and after the breaks of what meager offerings he can get in the arenas, he never fails to appreciate the offerings here.

The thing is, he doesn't know what's going on this time. Parties are clear, and he knows the restaurant, but when the tempting aromas he smells lead him into a banquet area, he's left wondering what's up. He doesn't see any signs about who or what it's for, and if it were meant for something special he imagines there would have been locked doors or peacekeepers to deter any nosy tributes.

So he wades in, peering curiously over the offerings, but not yet taking anything. Instead he looks for someone to explain, which is when he spots Sam. The taller one, that is.

"What's this about?"

Sam'd already started slowly moving his way over when he spotted someone looking over the food, but he quits meandering and makes a direct path the rest of the way when he asks him what this is about.

"Free food," he replies with a grin. "Not that that's all that unusual around here, but at least this time you know exactly where it's coming from." He gestures between Samwise and himself. "Went a little bit of a cooking spree."

The shorter Sam is there, but naturally rather less noticeable, as his head comes up only a few inches over the edge of the table. "You're welcome to it," he says, "If you'd like it. It ain't troll food, but it might be to your liking regardless." However... loud his first encounter with Karkat might have been, he can dredge up some courtesy while he's playing host.

"There's some o' your nutritional dirt tubers," he adds, pronouncing the words with clear skepticism - while his attempt at cooking with the Signless hadn't gone poorly, exactly, there were still a few things very much lost in translation. "Both kinds."

Free food. That perks him up straightaway, but that energy all but vanishes a moment later when he catches just who else the gesture is pointing to.

Well, not entirely. There's something deeply pleasing about there being someone so short, shorter than him even, that he failed to notice them until pointed out. But he doesn't say so.

"Just say the human words, would you?" he says, turning his gaze on Sam the Tiny. "Or Hobbit words if they're the same--hell if I know. I already fully expect troll cuisine to be omitted from daily life."

Looking at the taller dude, whose name he doesn't know is also Sam, he adds, "Thanks. If I had known sooner I wouldn't have stood around gawking like an idiot who's never seen a free meal. Is there some reason you two are doing this, or just because?" And he looks at both of them, a little more charitably than he had at just Samwise.

He can’t help but raise his eyebrows a little when Samwise calls them ‘nutritional dirt tubers.’ Not his first troll, then. It’s not Sam’s, either, and he grins a little at the expectation of troll cuisine being omitted.

“Hey, man, I take requests, if you’re looking for troll cuisine.”

Even if it’s like what was served at Signless’s crowning.

Sam glances over at his cooking partner at that before shrugging. “Just because, I guess. Kind of thought people could use it.”

Sam is of the personal opinion that no troll knows what food is - between the Signless' Crowning and Sam's own sad attempt to teach him to teach him the proper names of the vegetables.

But he makes a real effort to be charitable, even though Karkat makes him bristle - implying, as it seems, that the Hobbit words aren't the proper words, though of course they are. "It's among the best comforts of this place, in my opinion," he says, with a nod of agreement with Sam. "For it's hard to be at each other's throats, like, when you've a full table between you." This is not traditional Hobbit wisdom, but a belief he holds personally.

"...Though if it's not to your liking, you're free to turn up your nose all you like," he adds, just this side of peevish.

Karkat rolls his eyes at Samwise, an exaggerated thing that involves his head tipping along with it. "Calm your flailing rumblespheres, you hairy midget. I like food, I like the food here, and I am not the kind of mannerless asshat who's going to turn his sniff node up at a free banquet."

He turns his gaze on Sam. "And you--I don't know you, but thank you for not being as wildly accusative as your nutrition cohort. I appreciate the offer, too, but you'll have to excuse me if I'm dubious in the ability of a human to reproduce the cuisine of an alien species with human ingredients. The stuff at the Crowning was better than usual, but it wasn't really the same, you know?"

"Yeah, exactly," Sam agrees. "There's a reason why breaking bread is a symbol of friendship and peace, you know?" There's a pause, then he adds, "Well, it is for humans, anyway."

He grins back over at Karkat at that. "Sam Wilson," he introduces. "And I'm always happy to learn new recipes, if you've got 'em. Insects are considered a delicacy in some human cultures, you know." Not Sam's, but it's not like the food at Signless's crowning was the first time he'd ever eaten bugs.

Half of what Karkat says makes absolutely no sense to Sam. He's been told about how they're all made to speak the same language here, and he's spent time alone trying to make what few Elvish words he knows come out and failing. But he can't understand how rumblespheres and asshat and sniff node made it through, unless it's because they sound like real words enough to fool whatever's holding them all to this world's version of the Common Speech.

"We leave the bugs to the fields back in the Shire, unless they're interfering with the potatoes or the like," Sam offers, feeling the need to contribute his own cultural perspective to the conversation. His pride as a cook is warring with his ingrained disdain for Karkat's attitude-- but in the end it's pride as wins out. "...But I don't imagine they'd be so hard to cook. You'd have to allow us an attempt or two, granted-- but if you'd bother yourself to take the time, Master Troll, I think we might surprise you."

"Not stabbing each other in various bits of anatomy is the standard for trolls, but I will accept the human way if it puts something in my digestion sack," he answers back to Sam the Not So Whiny. But hold on a sec--

"You're also Sam?" His eyebrows have shot up. He looks between them. Is this a joke? Are they trolling him? They're a human and a hobbit; he will not stand for them outtrolling him. But with an almost petulant sigh, he answers, "Karkat Vantas."

Sam the Definitely Whiny One gets a flat look as he takes in the shared offer they've made. "I would thank you not to call the things I eat something better left in the dirt. I'm actively welcoming your culture's fare, aren't I?" It's a deliberate strike after how much Samwise seems to value manners.

"You would have to ask someone else for recipes, though, and some I don't think can be adapted. How do you make grubsauce with no grubs, or grubloaf? And I don't even know where to begin on explaining the mucus to you two." Look at that face: he is 100% serious, not even joking. He misses the mucus. "But if you're right about bugs being a delicacy, you can probably find something good from looking those up. It won't be Alternian, but it was good enough at Crowning."

The smell of good food was something nearly forgotten. Their food was scavenged, or occasionally hunted--With the worry of the Green Flu spreading through livestock, they were always wary of what few animals were left. A lot of what they ate were preservations out of cans. Fresh food, cooked food, had become a distant memory. But the smell brought it back, and feet followed nose as she wandered into the banquet area.

Rochelle stopped as soon as she saw the spread, eyes wide. Something like this, she had tried to forget, because she would never see it again. Eyes darted around, looking for the people who owned this food. She was cautious, because food was something people could get real particular over.

"Is this...for everyone?" She finally asked, hesitantly. She had to remember, they had food here, they had plenty of it. Maybe once she was thrown in the arena, things would be different, but here, she didn't need to worry.

Sam doesn’t head right over when he spots her come in. She looks a little hesitant, so he just kind of loiters nearby, just in case. If she doesn’t start digging in, he’ll move over to give her an official invitation - but then she speaks up, and he doesn’t have to.

“Yeah, it is,” Sam says with a smile, leaning his hip against the table. “Kind of figured everyone could use something nice without any strings attached.”

Just about everything here came with one hell of a string.

"You can say that again." She muttered, glancing the food over again. It's tempting to take some of it, and tuck it away in her room--But things were different here. Food was different here. She glanced back at him, expression impressed. "You cooked all this, by yourself? Next miracle you'll tell me is that you're single." It was a weak joke, and a weak attempt at flirting--But it was nice to get a chance to exercise either.

"So, what would you recommend...?" She grabbed a plate, starting to circle the table, and started collecting a few odds and ends that she recognized and knew she'd like. "This is awfully nice of you to do, you know."

His lips twist a little in a wry grin at that. Yeah, he hasn’t met a lot of Tributes who weren’t real conscious of the strings attached to everything here. It might be a weak attempt, but it makes his smile turn more genuine, eye crinkling a little. “Oh, I’m definitely single. And I kind of wish I could lie and say I did it all by myself to impress you, but nah, I had a co-chef.”

Sam tilts his head a the food on display at that, considering. “Depends - you in the mood for savory, or sweet?”

"The miracles never cease." She replied easily enough. "A co-chef isn't bad, though. Just shows you work well with others. Just gotta think positively." She glances over the food, and kind of shrugs. "Trust me, I came here out of a real hole of a world, anything that's fresh is going to be good for me. So--Both, I guess." She hesitated for a moment, and glanced at him, a little smile playing across her mouth. "Maybe leaning towards sweeter things."

She did take a moment to scan and see if this mysterious second chef was around, though, if just to thank them as well for helping prepare all this food. She had half a mind to try fetching Ellis and Nick--Or maybe just Ellis, since Nick had seemed determined to not play well with others. Maybe she'd get them a doggy bag.

"See, now that? That's a hell of a skill, man, turning that into something good. I don't see that a lot." Thinking positively isn't always that common around here. For understandable reasons, yeah, but it's still nice to hear someone mention it.

"Both leaning towards sweeter," Sam repeats, scanning over the food for a moment before he looks back over at her with a grin. "You ever had bacon maple doughnuts?"

"The world I left was pretty grim. Not forced into battle royales grim, but pretty awful. You learn to look for goodness where you can get it, 'cause you don't know where you'll find it next." Was this worse than living in a zombie-infested wasteland? It sure seemed better right now, but Rochelle had yet to step into an arena. She knew that her mind would probably change once she's seen it for herself--a prospect that sinks her stomach.

In order to unsink that stomach, she scans the items as well, and raises her eyebrow at his suggestion, quickly shaking her head. "No, I haven't. That sounds both incredibly Canadian, and incredibly good, though, so I'm game."

That’s not the first time he’s heard something like that. Actually, he’s finding it more common than not, that the people who end up here are pulled from worlds in at least some state of ‘oh shit.’ Sam’s is actually one of the better ones, as far as he’s concerned. He smiles a little. “Still a skill, man. I’ve seen a lot of people from some pretty dark shit who don’t learn that.”

He chuckles at her response, hunting around for where they put the doughnuts and unearthing a maple bar with a couple of pieces of crispy bacon on top. “I made the worst face when my best friend first tried to get me to have one, but they’re pretty damn good.”

"I'll take it as a compliment, then. For my good sense, if nothing else." She replied, a small smile on her face. Ellis was even better at that than she was--And Nick was worse. He was..definitely more for the not learning that part. The others around here seemed well enough adjusted, from what she'd seen.

She inspects the doughnut he offers, then grins, shaking her head. "Trust a guy to figure out how to make a doughnut with bacon. But hey, you only live--" Pause. "Okay, maybe that's a bad phrase, here. But I'm willing to give anything a shot." She held out a hand, looking dubious but willing. "I wish I had something to offer you, back. Maybe next time I try my hand at cooking."

She hated to accept this place, even temporarily, but what choice did she have? Even if she could escape the building, it was another world out there, one where she had no understanding of the environment and no home to get back to. Éowyn wasn't yet ready to stop hoping for a way out - and probably never would be - but by now, a few days after her arrival, even she had to admit that she was going to have to adapt to this place, and at least appear to acclimatise. When the chance came, she would be ready to strike back at her captors. But until then, as Anna had said, all they could do was make the best of it.

But even that was easier said than done. Everything about the Tribute Center and the city outside it was entirely foreign, incomprehensible, and that only made her gnawing homesickness and loneliness worse. In Edoras, she had at least known and loved the people around her, and had that comfort even when she had to hide her feelings. Here, she had yet to see anyone she recognised, or even anything that was homely to her.

So when she saw the Halfling, she was halfway across the room towards him before she even thought about it. She and Samwise had never spoken. She had never even seen him, besides briefly at King Elessar's coronation. But she recognised him, and she knew that he was from her own world, and when she was so thoroughly unmoored, that was enough.

It was only when she reached the table that she realised she had no idea how to introduce herself, or what to say thereafter. Struck by a thoroughly uncharacteristic bout of shyness, she clenched her hands against her skirt, trying to remember that she was not a shy or retiring person, and that there was little to lose by talking to him. But he was her one link with home, the first she had found, and the idea of somehow severing that link was more terrifying than any battle she had ever faced.

"...Samwise? Samwise Gamgee?" she managed at last, clearing her throat, and half-raised one hand to try and gain his attention.

There was no coronation in Sam's memory. He'd come from an earlier time, and a darker one; he'd come to the Capitol without knowing the end of their story, whether it was a kind or a cruel one, or even that Eowyn was a part of it. He didn't know about the time his friends had spent in Rohan - were spending in Rohan, in fact, at the moment he'd been snapped up from the Stair of Cirith Ungol.

He turned to her, distracted by the sound of his name-- he'd been up on his toes, arranging tomatoes on a plate only a little lower than eye level for him. He still had the tongs in his hand as he hesitated, and then bowed, a little uncertain.

He didn't know her, but something about her made the bow seem right. Folk here didn't often extend that sort of courtesy, and he'd been trying, in recent days, to break himself of the habit; but something in her bearing, in her face, made it feel the most natural thing to do. There was something noble about her, and-- not familiar, for he was sure he'd never seen her before, but perhaps something about their shared world was in her face, or in the set of her shoulders.

"At your service," he replied, and that felt right too. "If there's something you're seeking, I hope I can help you find it-- though I can tell you more about what's on the table than about anything off of it."

"What I am seeking, I have found." For the first time in a while, she found herself smiling, even laughing a little, sheepish but mostly overwhelmingly relieved. "I sought a friendly face, and in you I see it. Do you not recall me, Master Samwise? Éowyn is my name, who fought with Meriadoc at the Pelennor Fields, and with him slew the beast and its fell rider." She scanned his face for the spark of recognition, and felt her heart sink. Was it possible that Merry had not mentioned her? But he must have heard something of it, at least. Even if only her name. How could he not?

And yet, she did not see recognition dawning. Swallowing back her bitterness, she forced the smile to stay on her face, although it wavered a little. "My lord husband, at least, you must recall, for you and the Ringbearer tarried with him a while in the forests of Ithilien, two years ago. Tell me this place has not taken even that from you." From me. Tell me I am not alone here.

No, there was no recognition in his face, but there was a kind of frustrated wonder-- what ill luck, to be confronted with someone from his own world, and not to recognize her!

"Two years ago," he said, slowly. He was trying to put this all together in his own head - for everyone he'd known who'd also come here, Aragorn and Frodo and Bilbo and Thorin and the rest, had come out of a different time from his, had had memories he didn't and knowledge of him he couldn't have had. It was all terribly abstract, and not remotely easy for him to picture - and two years! Why, he'd not expected to live two more years, at the place he'd come from - he'd not been sure about two weeks.

"Two years for you, lady," he went on, "And days only, for me. It's from Ithilien we'd come, fresh supplied on our way up the Stair, at the time I was... taken up, as it were." It wasn't a happy memory. Even his time in Ithilien he'd spent suspicious and fearful for Frodo and the burden he'd carried. "And Faramir never spoke of any wife, begging your pardon--! Which is all to say, your name's not known to me, though I wish it were-- I'd be glad of a familiar face, as glad as I am to be a familiar face, though I suppose a disappointing one."

--But there was more curious about this. "--But one name you've said I do know-- and that's Meriadoc, who was kin to my master, and his friend." He'd had news of him before. "Thorongil told me he'd been taken by Orcs."

She nodded. "And so he was. But he escaped them, and came thence to Edoras, where we met." It was easy enough to say that, and she did so almost without thinking, while her mind wheeled with this new understanding. How could it be that he was so far behind? Was it truly possible? Or had he, perhaps, lost some of his memories, and only thought himself come from the Stair?

Then again, was it truly so strange? She knew that this was another world, that she had been taken out of her own time. Why, then, should he not have been taken out of his?

Because I know he did not vanish! Samwise lived, and travelled, and bore the Ringbearer onwards, and through him and the Ringbearer were our people saved! The voice in her mind was doubtless the voice of reason, but it sounded desperate beyond belief. She shook it off with an effort, her smile gone now. It wasn't unhappiness that drove the smile away, but only confusion, and - yes - a little hurt. Whether it was true or not, it stung not to be recognised.

She cleared her throat, pushing her hair back with one hand, and groped for the thread of what she had been saying, aware that she had been too silent for too long. "...As for Faramir, he would not have spoken of me in Ithilien, for then he knew me not. We met thereafter, both of us sore injured at the war's end."

Aragorn had explained it to him this way: That their tale, as it were, was something like a book, from which they'd all been taken from different pages. (That certain other Tributes actually believe him to be a character from a book is not something Sam is yet aware of.) It's yet the clearest picture Sam can form of their dilemma, the mess of times and places they know and don't know - which isn't to say he understands it, but it is, at least, a place to start from.

(...Though it must be a powerful long book, is the impression he's getting.)

His face lit up at the mention of Merry's escape, mixed joy and relief-- maybe that meant Pippin had fared as well. He wanted to ask after them, to ask after all of them, but he was stopped by the words she spoke last-- words he'd not yet heard from any of the people of Middle-earth he'd known here, not even Aragorn.

"...The... the war's end," he said, and his expression was suddenly uncertain, hesitant. Aragorn had cautioned him against sharing too much that others could not possibly know, and they still did their best to keep mentions of their Quest as quiet as possible - the Capitol having in its possession, so far as they knew, not just Frodo's Ring, but the one Sam had been carrying when he came, and Bilbo's as well, from years before. It would be dangerous to allow the Capitol to learn just what power had passed into its hands.

...But a powerful curiosity warred with Sam's instincts, which caution him to Leave well enough alone, Sam Gamgee; you've come this far not knowing, and it's done you no harm. But. Still--

"...Begging your pardon, Lady," he went on, and he turned the tongs over in his hands again and again without seeming to notice he was doing it. "When you say the war's end-- You see, I've come from what's very much the war's middle, as it were, and then from a place miles from anyone doing any sort of fighting in it. So-- when you say the war's end, do you mean to say that the Enemy is--" He dropped his voice. "--is vanquished?"

She hesitated a moment, unsure how to answer, but though she had many flaws, over-caution had never been one of them. She nodded, at last, even smiled. "I mean to say just that," she confirmed, ducking her head, and pushed a stray lock of hair back out of her eyes. "In my time, he is fallen, his armies scattered. 'Tis a year past that we saw you and your friends leave Gondor for the Shire, with all due honour. For it was you, Master Samwise, and your master Frodo, who vanquished him."

Again she hesitated, and then reached out to him, clasping his shoulder for a moment. Her smile faded a little, her stern grey eyes holding his. "Know this, Master Samwise, if ever we should be returned to our own places; that there is light beyond the shadow, and by my reckoning, you have not so very far to go. There is strength in you and your folk which shames the best of us, and in those darkest of days was it revealed to us."

Sam was quiet for a moment. Not so much out of confusion, or uncertainty this time, but because what the Lady Eowyn is saying to him felt impossibly... big, somehow - a revelation encompassing all their world, and every person he ever cared about in it. It was far too big a revelation for him, being as he was only a very small part of the proceedings (or so he believed). It was you, Master Samwise was a statement that barely registered with him, the impossibility of it being altogether to big to fit into his head.

He let every piece of that go through his head one at a time, and took in each sentence as it came; he dropped his eyes and listened with furrowed brow, and his hands were still. One always felt small in a world built for people twice one's size, but he thought he'd never felt so small as this, not since he came here.

"Begging your pardon," he said haltingly, after a long pause, and he looked back up at her. "But there's something I'd like to be sure of - and that's what you said about my master Frodo having vanquished him, and all." His own part in it he didn't think worth mentioning, whatever it may have been. It felt arrogant, somehow, to want to know of that. "I... I don't mean to demand of you news of the future, if my own future it's truly to be. I worry it's too much even to ask what you mean by leaving Gondor, and who it is you count among my friends-- Knowledge is a gift, after all, and like a gift I think it's not one's place to demand it. But--" And he leaned in a little closer, earnest. "--but you do remember Master Frodo. Folk do know of his part in it, and remember him as he ought be remembered."

He hadn't quite put together yet that Frodo had survived the ordeal. He'd learned from others that his last memory of weeping over Frodo's cold body would be proved a lie, but he still held no hope whatsoever that Frodo would live through the war. He could reconcile only one thing at a time - he'd start with the fact of the war's end itself.

"If knowledge is a gift, it is one I will all too gladly give." Éowyn had to look a long way down to meet his eyes, tall as she was, but there was nothing condescending in that look. A faint, slightly sad smile played at the corners of her mouth. It was hard not to be a little touched, really, by where his priorities lay. "Your master's part is well-known indeed, fear not. If you wish, I could sing you some of the songs I have heard name him, since the war ended." The sadness in her smile is, for a moment, replaced by something almost like mischief. "Indeed, there is a man among my lord husband's band, Maenir, who is even yet working on his Lay of the Halflings. I could hum you a few bars, should you wish it. The verse that speaks of Samwise the Bold, and how he shouted down the Captain of Gondor... that ever raises my spirits."

It surprised her, a little, to find that gentle teasing still in her. But even as it surprised her, it lifted her heart, for she had half-begun to fear that side of herself lost again.

But she didn't want to push that teasing too far, not when she still feared the loss of this one tenuous connection to home. Biting back her smile, she sobered herself again, and said more seriously, "All four of you who left the Shire... you did great deeds. I jest, true, but there is not a one of your fellowship whose name does not ring from the eaves of great halls to the close walls of the lower taverns. You may fear many things, Master Samwise. But do not fear that he will be forgotten."

At "Samwise the Bold," Sam's eyes went wide, and he flushed over his whole face, bright as a summer strawberry. He couldn't find words for a moment-- he made a stammering attempt at speaking and finally just ducked his head, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure, and feeling better equipped to look at his own feet than into Eowyn's face.

He anchored himself to thoughts of Frodo, and so won his composure back - what use was it, standing here and stuttering like a ninny, when she'd been kind enough to tell him something so important? He took a deep breath, looked back up at Eowyn, and said, more or less steadily, with the blush only just fading, "Then-- that's as it should be. I won't ask no more of you, so as not to-- upset things, as Strider might say. But--"

And he couldn't stop the smile that broke over his face, warm and shy. "--But that does my heart good, to hear that. For-- there's none as deserves a song as much as him. And I hope someday I'll have the chance to learn it, so it's not forgotten, if I should ever find my way back to the Shire from this place."

He shook his head, and said, a little more slowly, as if considering-- "It's funny, ain't it? That that should perk me up so much, when it can't do me or anyone a lick of good here. But it's-- it's a comfort, I suppose, to know something good might somewhere happen, sometime, even if it has nothing to do with me anymore."

Éowyn's laugh was a wonder to her, for since her arrival, she had not felt so purely and thoroughly glad. It was impossible not to be touched by him, by his relief and his joy, and - yes - his shyness too. "You will find your way home," she says, with sudden certainty. It may not last, but for now, there is something too strong to even be called hope. "How can you not? For all that is to come awaits you, and I have seen it."

And did that mean, then, that she might find her way back, too? She dared not think too hard on it, for fear that sudden burst of joy and hope would fade the faster. But that he would escape... that, she could believe, for now. She had seen him, after all, beyond this point. She knew his story did not end here, far from home and with his adventure yet unfinished. He, at least, could escape and be free, and that was joy enough.

Bayard is in the kitchen from the start, when Sam and Samwise arrive to begin making their feast, sitting on the floor with big sheets of paper and pens, with which he's drawing crude horses and men with swords and rifles. He isn't using the correct side of the pen, which has a cap on it, and is instead dipping it in a variety of makeshift inks he's found in the cabinets - soy sauce, jam, mustard and vanilla extract, grinning with mischievous delight at having so much food to waste, even if he isn't sure why it is that he couldn't locate any proper ink.

Because he's both small and crouched over, he's difficult to see until Sam and Samwise both round the corner of the counter. Bayard unfolds upwards, not seeming all that vigilant for a kid who was just shot in the back of the head on television so recently. He doesn't smile, but there's a certain dewy, youthful optimism in his expression, a certain openness to the world and to new people.

"Hello. You wouldn't happen to know where this place has got ink, would you? Or some berry juice, I reckon that'll work fine."

Sam’s eyebrows raise in surprise when the kid pops up from behind the counter, and he feels a brief pang. Normally Sam’s more than happy being around kids, but seeing them around here just means that they’re Tributes, that he’s going to be seeing them in the arena. It bothers him more than meeting other Tributes.

Still, he smiles at the question.

“You’ve got some ink right there,” he says, nodding at the pen. “Unless you’re looking for printer ink or something, then I got nothing.”

"I didn't see any ink." Bayard holds the pen up to his face, then wipes off some of the soy sauce he's using to draw on his shirt (he takes a second to marvel, again, that he has so many clothes here in his assigned closet that he could dirty one every day of the week and never have to have them laundered). "Then again this is an awful strange nib."

His father has a fountain pen, a lovely wooden one that Bayard's been allowed to hold but never to use. He tries again, the correct side and this time with pressure, and looks pleasantly surprised when actual ink comes out.

"Gosh."

He grins a bit at the kid's pleased surprise. "Amazing sh- stuff they got here, right?" he asks, correctly himself quickly when he realizes he's about to curse in front of the kid. Not that he figures cursing is something to protect the kid from, especially around here, but it's second nature for him with how much his sister scolds him if he slips in front of her kids.

"I'll say. Have you been shown the outhouses yet? They're indoors and they clean themselves." Bayard sounds thrilled to disseminate this news, almost as excited as if he is, somehow, personally responsible for the leaps mankind has accomplished. It's all so phantasmagorical to him that it can't help but pump him up with glee.

He starts drawing another horse. They seem to be a common theme in his art, horses and occasional dog-looking things (which are actually mules).

“Outhouses?” Sam repeats, because that’s a new one even for him. He’s not sure he’s met anyone from that far in the past - or at least, if he has, they haven’t mentioned it yet.

“What year was it, before you found yourself here?”

"Eighteen-sixty three." Bayard starts to draw a soldier on the horse - the soldier would proably be better rendered as a stick figure than as the blobby combination of strange shapes Bayard tries to arrange into a human form (which dwarfs the horse), but that doesn't stop him any. "Why? I understand other people ain't all from so far forward as that. If I use a word you ain't familiar with I can try my best to explain it."

It doesn't occur to Bayard that Sam is from later in time than Bayard is. He just assumes that maybe Sam's from a time that doesn't have outhouses, or that maybe they call them something different up North.

Edited (hurr durr got the year wrong) 2015-05-11 10:11 (UTC)

It's definitely the scent of food that draws Iskierka's attention. Sure, she probably couldn't identify half the scents if her life depending on it, but it smells good at that's all she needs. Especially when life in the Capitol is so full of things that she could never have expected. So wander in she does, quite entirely unconcerned about who might be involved in this much less the fact that she's still a dragon at the end of the day.

Instead, she sets about prowling around the edges the display. It's only when - and if - she should happen across another person that she really bothers to speak. Although once she does, she can't quite keep her curiosity to herself.

"If it is not too much trouble to ask, what is this all for?"

As soon as Sam spots her, he starts drifting vaguely over in her direction. He’s only met her once, but it’s hard to forget the first dragon you ever talked to. Still, he waits for her to say something, in case she’s just in the mood to grab and go.

“For everyone,” he replies with a little grin. “It’s, uh, not really any special occasion. A friend and I just got around to cooking, and we thought everyone might want a pick-me-up.”

The idea of grabbing something and going hasn't much occurred to her, partly because she's too interested in seeing what all is going on, and partly because there's never been any need for to. That and the fact that it's not precisely easy to eat on the wing, when one is carrying a full crew of people besides.

"Oh," she comments, sounding at least reasonably pleased. "It is definitely a good idea, and I do not think it can hurt anything besides."

Sam grins a little at that. “I’m pretty sure both of us are decent enough cooks that at least no one has to worry about food poisoning.”

He’s joking, but he also knows there are some Tributes who actually are concerned about that, when the Capitol is in control in their food. He can’t exactly blame them, but, well, making his own food is about the best he can manage there.

"That is good, and I am certain some people are glad to hear it," Iskierka answers with an approximation of a nod. She's aware that he's joking, more or less, but food poisoning is very rarely a thing she's had to deal with. Mostly because dragons are still very much similar to the reptiles of earth, in so far as their eating habits are concerned. Not that Iskierka can't enjoy cooked meat, but she's built to not need it to be, at the end of the day.

(Although she is at least aware of the fact that not many people are going to find that sight particularly appealing, no matter she might enjoy a proper cow.)

supper's on the table

For Samwise

thanks for waiting on me!!

\

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both, please!

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YO let me know if you'd prefer a separate thread! c:

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warning that this will lead into cannibalism talk if they ask about grubs. TROLLS ARE WEIRD

either or both! o:

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Mostly aimed at Samwise, but I'm totally happy with either/both!

Re: Mostly aimed at Samwise, but I'm totally happy with either/both!

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THANKS SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE, SORRY

WORTH IT

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Both Samz

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Bayard's been hanging out with Hobbits and the Dragon Age cast...

either or both!

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