Writing Meme

[igiko]

series. Dragon Quest VIII, Legend of Zelda, Tales of Graces, Tales of Hearts
warning. Rated PG
notes. Fills to this prompt plurk.

Walter and Angelo, rivalry for Shirley

Note: A short AU based on if the curse's effect on Walter's racial identity had persisted and the sea expedition had taken place soon after.


Though Angelo was disinclined to overexert his fine self, there were times that he rose to the challenge.

Such challenges oft involved a fair maiden and the acquiring of her hand for the days — perhaps the night, too — in spite of the odds, which tended to include stubbornness or another man. They were merely odds, though, and he was more than adequately equipped to overcome them with the precise words and precise actions.

Shirley Fennes was a pretty little bird that was just ripe for the taking, and the problem with her lied in the latter.

"Walter," she called him, reminded Angelo of a zealous dog. Every fiber of his being seemed to exude a subtle murderous vibe, and while that didn't constitute a problem for Angelo, the fact that "Walter" suffocated Shirley with his over-protectiveness was another matter. He would bristle at a single person approaching the girl and almost always made certain that he ruined the moment with his boring presence. He was perpetually unhappy. Angelo didn't really care.

What he did care about was the opportunity to finally pursue sweet Shirley with little effort on his end when Walter forsook her with a few careless words.

First he presented her with some sweet words of his own, and then a flower for her troubles — though what troubles? Oh, any, really, whatever distress came to her pretty mind. He noticed immediately that Shirley was no longer so tense, and so she reciprocated his gestures with thoughtful kindness of her own. That she gave him a smile was grand progress, though she still had her reservations. He, too, smiled to himself any time she pulled away from his touch (a harmless caress of one of her braids), for he was more than ready to mount the challenge.

Then the time to set sail came around the corner, and when Angelo invited her on board the ship he'd built with Lloyd, Shirley soon wandered over to Walter's side, who was busy staring at nothing on the deck. Inwardly, Angelo sighed and decided that an intervention was necessary.

"Are you enjoying the sea breeze?" Shirley was asking Walter, who was clearly disinterested. He did not so much as cast her a glance, his gaze glued on the expansive horizon stretched before them.

"If it bothers you, go inside," Walter said evenly.

Shirley shook her head. "Oh, no, it's not like that. It's just, we've never been on a ship together." She smiled out of fondness, saying: "But I'm glad we have this way."

Oh, no, indeed. Angelo was having none of that. Before Walter could respond in his maddeningly flat tone, Angelo cleared his throat — and when Shirley whipped around, Walter casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he offered a curt bow. For Shirley, of course. Walter could drown and all would be right in the universe.

"Sorry to interrupt," he started, "but it'll soon be time to eat, and I was wondering what you would fancy for a meal on this ship — a fine piece of collaborative work, if I may say so. Now, what say you, Shirley?"

Shirley inclined her head gently to the side. "I'm okay with anything, really," she answered. "I'd be happy with whatever is most convenient."

Chuckling in spite of himself, Angelo waved his hand. "That simply won't do. There can only be the best for a woman as beautiful as yourself. There's no need to be shy. If there's anything — and I do mean anything — that you'd like, please share."

Shirley seemed to stew on the repeat offer, though her train of thought broke the second Walter peeled away from the rail, his back facing her and Angelo. "Walter, where are you going?" A subtle trace of concern bled into her tone.

"The back."

Then Walter picked up his stride without waiting for a reply, causing Shirley to draw a hand to her chin in thought as she watched his retreating form with furrowed brows. Angelo promptly slid into her view, breaking her watch on Walter's back. The sooner he changed this scene, the better.

"Why don't we head to the dining room? I'm sure that it'll please you," he said, placing his hand at the small of her back, though he didn't quite touch, merely hovered close to the skin as a show of respect. Shirley simply gave him a small nod in return, and followed when he opened the door that led to below deck.

Although he succeeded in keeping the pleasure of Shirley's company for the rest of that day, Angelo found the experience largely unsatisfactory and not as planned. There was a perpetual crease in Shirley's features, a crease she had spent hours hiding that he still saw with practiced ease, and it soon reached a point where he couldn't watch any longer. He leaned forward, eyes carefully studying Shirley across the table.

"Shirley, my flower — is something the matter? You look unwell." When she attempted to reply in the negative, he pressed soothingly: "You can be honest. I'm willing to listen."

Shirley was chewing on lower lips. "Well . . . I'm worried about Walter."

A part of Angelo somewhere deep within the confines of his clever mind twitched. It figured that the designated other man of the game would become a problem after removing himself from it. And he was still unhappy, and that unhappiness was now walking all over the precious little time he had with Shirley. But Angelo kept such contemptuous thoughts private, and instead he feigned interest (he'd be lying if he didn't want to know why she cared so much).

"Why's that? He seemed to be in perfect health when I last saw him. You know, when you were talking to him."

"I'm not worried about that. Walter's always been strong, so of course he would be healthy." Shirley's frame slumped with an inaudible sigh. "He's changed for the better, but we're still this distant . . . He rarely speaks with me . . . "

Angelo leaned back against his seat. "I was under the impression that he was a man of few words."

"Oh, he is," she said earnestly. After a brief pause, she added: "Actually, he used to be fairly talkative around me. More than he usually is, I mean."

"Well, love has a way of doing things to a man. It's expected that he'd push out a few more words just for you," Angelo offered, considering all the ways he could twist this topic to his advantage. At this point, he'd set up a great opening for himself, only if Shirley would respond in a manner that would reinforce the opportunity.

But she just looked confused.

"L-love?" she stuttered, then quickly shook her head. Almost vehemently. "No, it's not like that. Walter can't possibly . . . no, he doesn't. I know for certain that he doesn't. And I'm . . . "

"You're what?"

"That's . . . He must know that I've promised myself to someone else," she answered at last, looking oddly defeated.

Why was every single woman in this confounded barrier taken?

"Well, that doesn't mean he can't still love you," Angelo rebutted following a pregnant pause. The conversation had taken a poor turn, so it was now or never: "You know, Shirley, that reminds me — I've been wanting to tell you something."

Some of the tension faded from her features and Shirley blinked. "What is it?" she asked.

"You see, while we're on the topic of love . . . I — "

He never finished, for the door to the dining room swung open and several foreigners poured in one by one for the upcoming meal. Angelo and Shirley had stayed inside the whole period in-between meals, and the intrusion effectively destroyed his plans, particularly when Walter took a seat beside the small crowd. Shirley immediately left her seat to walk over to his side.

The universe was cruel.

Calcedny and Cheria, mornings

Note: This "AU" assumes Cheria is still laughably single, and that Calcedny returned to Vatheon after the drop with a canon update. And seeing as how I'm kind of lacking on Cheria's CR, I fudged a lot of things.


Sometimes, Cheria wondered how the handful of knights (former and ex-apprentices included) she knew could be so different. There was Captain Malik, who was an admirable figure loaded with wisdom, but also a sharp wit that sometimes seemed inappropriate; then Asbel, who in spite of the responsibility he bore remained childish in a completely enraging manner; and then there was Calcedny, who was as chivalrous as her companions, though with a great deal more of professionalism. And it was Calcedny, she thought, who best resembled an ideal knight.

I mean, he actually notices when a woman is upset. Honestly, Asbel!

She shifted in her seat, staring uncomfortably at the needle pinched between her thumb and index finger. She was by no means putting down the Captain or Asbel (she never could, for long). It was that after meeting at odd times over a span of a couple months, Calcedny held the distinction of never forgoing his etiquette. He was awkward sometimes, to be sure, and she chalked that up to his age. What is it, anyway? He may act that way, but he can’t be much older than me, if at all. He sounds so young. Dimly, it occurred to her that he reminded her of Hubert, just not nearly as stiff in speech, and she wondered if that meant Calcedny, too, had a silver tongue.

Alas, there was no one to ask. It would be rude to approach any stranger that Calcedny knew for the answers. Moreover he had left Vatheon and only returned recently, and he seemed so much more morose than before, if not outright depressed for unstated reasons, so he was clearly unfit for interrogation. Just like Hubert, prior to his making amends with his brother. Pity welling in her heart, Cheria reined her curiosity in with a sigh.

She usually had Asbel in her mind, and she still did, on most hours. The remainder left her thoughts to tend toward Calcedny. Most likely it was the work of her innate concern for those around her; Calcedny had his moments as a man, and she wasn’t privy to how old he was, but she knew from a second glance that he must be in Hubert’s age range. And that he must be unhappy, if his apathy these days spoke for anything.

Glowering, she fastened the thread around her finger and set to work. The cloth would not finish itself if she thought about people so much. At best, she would grow gray hairs, and that was totally unattractive. Not that Asbel would care, if he even noticed. Oh, how can anyone be so thick?

She only managed a couple of stitches before she gave up. She tossed the material aside onto a table next to her, where the rest of the set lay, and sighed loudly. It was morning, and she intended to finish by the evening, so she should allow herself an early break to clear her mind. I really need to stop thinking about these kinds of things. But . . . it’s not like I can help it. She stood. I’ll go out for some fresh air. I wonder what the weather on the island is like today.

Resolving to find out, Cheria left the house and made a beeline for the elevator. Some of her immediate thoughts had organized themselves in the detour, and she was already in a sound mood by the time she reached her destination. The man in charge of the elevator’s operation greeted her with his typical smile, compelling her to return the expression. Then she was systematically led to the island’s surface, where the weather was as clear and natural as she’d hoped.

She went to the beach shore, where she considered the air to be at its crispest. She welcomed the caress of the lively breeze, raising a hand to tuck a few wayward strands behind her ear. It was a motion she repeated for a moment while setting her muddy thoughts loose, as the wind carried away traces of her frustrations with Asbel’s ignorance. With each grievance she was relieved of, her senses became clearer, her body more relaxed— so it was toward the end of her leisurely walk that Cheria heard the sounds of movement in the wind and blinked.

Curiosity sped her to the edge tucked away behind nearby foliage. It conveniently hid her as she stooped below a low branch to play spectator, though she nearly gave away her position with a stifled gasp when Calcedny came into view.

She had little time to wonder at his location, for she then noticed the sword in his grip. It was a standard sword of metal easily found in the Nostalgia Nook, and he hadn’t had such a possession in his return, so he must have purchased it there (that is, if it hadn’t been given to him). She also noticed the glaring detail of his missing armor; the breastplate he had always worn in his first stay, which still remained something of a mystery to her. He had never talked about it, she had never thought to ask on the assumption that he would have stayed longer, and it might have struck a nerve if she had done so on his immediate return, so the idea had eventually left her.

Maybe it was something important, after all. Is that what’s causing him to be upset? He always says he’s “fine” when I ask, but anyone can see that that’s a lie. Calcedny was as bad at lying as Asbel, she thought. Or he’s just that hurt to cover it up properly. . . She stopped herself there, not wanting to romanticize another’s feelings.

The desire to know about the breastplate’s history suddenly came back with a horrible, burning vengeance of curiosity as she continued to eye Calcedny’s movements like a hawk. He was a fine swordsman, she guessed from her little experience of observing the craft, and he fought nothing like Asbel. Asbel’s techniques seamlessly linked to each other, rather reminiscent of a dance; while Calcedny was undoubtedly skilled, his gestures were rigid. He readjusted his grip on the hilt often, suggesting that he was new to the sword, but his measured swings said otherwise. He was also left-handed. You don’t see a lot of those. Is it because he’s left-handed that he’s having so much difficulty? Is the sword too heavy? But he looked like he knew what he was doing, so she laid her suspicions to rest.

Within another two minutes of watching, Cheria began to feel a sense of intrusion for watching him in secret. She shook away the guilt with a shake of her head, and then rose to emerge from her spot. She stepped on a twig while doing so, and the loud sound that accompanied the snapping prompted Calcedny to whip around, alarmed. He relaxed just as soon.

“Cheria,” he greeted, lowering the sword to his side. “Were you watching?” he asked as he glanced down at the blade. Beads of sweat had started to appear around his face, and his hand was clammy with it. He had been sorely spoiled by his Soma.

“Only a little. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to spy on you,” Cheria answered honestly, her hands folded across her lower torso.

“No,” said Calcedny. His tone was somewhat distant. “I don’t mind.”

“Why don’t you rest for a bit? You look tired, so you must have been swinging that sword around for a while.” She continued, “It’s rather sunny this morning. If you overexert yourself, you might be hurt in the heat.”

Calcedny seemed to be of the same opinion, unlike thick Asbel, who would have resisted with oblivious comments of “but I feel just fine, and I’ll get stronger this way” or some such to beg the proof that he could protect others when he already was fully capable. Cheria helped herself to a smile at the juxtaposition, pleased by Calcedny’s cooperation, and bid him to take a seat under a tree shade. He stood there instead, and so did she at an arm’s length. Oh, well. I guess that’s more than I could have asked for.

They were quiet at first, Calcedny basking in the cool of the shade and Cheria’s mind racing with thoughts. Even the outrage that she should have already sorted this out was out the window, and she was consumed with the need to ask him a plethora of questions. Such was her curse of perpetual curiosity, for she had understood in her early adolescence that she was nosy when she wanted to be, and here, she needed to be if she wanted to sort things out. So after another short moment of unbearable silence, she glanced at him and asked: “Is this your first time with a sword? I only ask because I don’t use swords, myself, so I’m a little in the dark.”

Calcedny took a moment to contemplate his response, which struck Cheria as strange. I thought it was an easy question. “It is,” he answered at last, nodding. “My method before this was different. I only trained like this with a stick, when I was a child.” Cheria stifled a good-natured laugh, a hand raised to her lips, the corners of which had upturned.

“A stick? Is it because you were playing ‘knight’?”

“It was easier than holding a practice sword. I didn’t have the strength to handle even that as a child,” said Calcedny. His easy response betrayed no offense at her silly guess, but Cheria sobered regardless, a burning sensation overtaking her ears. She hoped that her face didn’t mirror the heat and shame.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. But,” she started fondly, recovering, “I think you wield it very well now. The sword, I mean.”

Calcedny turned his gaze from her, to the brazen spot he’d been training earlier. “Shing gave it to me.” As Cheria opened her mouth to reply, thinking that he had no more to say, he continued: “I was angry at first. He must have thought I was weak, and was trying to make me compensate.” He let out a stunted chuckle. “Of course, I was wrong. Shing had only done it out of kindness.”

He stopped there, and Cheria tilted her head. She wondered why he’d elected to tell her all of this, when she hadn’t even asked and he had seemed so secluded and secretive before. But she took in every word he’d said without protest, rather with a welcoming quietude that she intended to comfort his insecurities with. After all, isn’t that what it is? If he was worried about what Shing thought, he must have been scared of being cast aside. Of being considered a burden. She shifted, her boots scraping against even dirt, reminded of her similar worries of old. He really is a lot like Hubert. And Shing would probably be . . . Asbel.

“You’re right. Shing is a kind person,” she said finally, breaking the silence that had loomed over them. “I’m sure he gave that sword to you because he wanted you to know that you were strong, no matter what’s happened.” Though she was grasping at straws, of this, she was certain. Calcedny confirmed as much with a curt nod, and as he did so he gave the sword a light swing, minding Cheria’s position.

“I relinquished my Soma to Shing and his friends. While a sword shouldn’t be any fundamentally different, everything besides those principles is off,” he confessed. “Shing knew. He told me with that cheerful face of his to practice every day, so that we could spar again one day.” He let out a quiet “hmph.” “And while I’m training like this, he spends all of his time with Kohaku. He’s been as badly spoiled as I am.”

Cheria’s romantically inclined mind latched onto the implication of his statement, and she blurted before she could stop herself: “You have a girlfriend, Calcedny?” Oh, but doesn’t everyone? I’m the only one still left hanging, and I’ve known whom I want to be with forever! Not to mention, Calcedny is so much younger compared to me . . . ! Curse the infuriating and maddeningly coveted man named Asbel; curse him.

The suddenness of her question clearly bewildered Calcedny, who looked at her with a slight expression of surprise. His eyes had widened a smidgen, and his grip on the sword had gone slack. He seemed to remember someone at Cheria’s push, and Cheria’s heart thumped, awaiting his response. If he did indeed have someone, she would have to ask more—perhaps later, even though she knew the curiosity would escalate between now and the wait that she would drive herself up the wall for condemning her mind again. So now, for good measure, she took a bold step toward him, insisting upon his reply.

“I,” Calcedny started, for once at an utter loss of words. He’s flustered. He’s totally flustered! He cleared his throat, and said, “There is no girlfriend, exactly. However,” he paused, seeing how Cheria leaned in more, the intensity of her gaze boring itself through his skull, and he finished lamely, “there’s . . . someone, where I came from.”

And of course it’s complicated. Just like Hubert!

Pleased and enthused on his behalf, Cheria snapped back and struck out with a finger, demanding his attention and cooperation. “Then you’ll definitely have to become as strong as you were before, like Shing was saying,” she said, her excitement climbing. “Look, an hour must have already passed since you stopped. It’s about time you resumed your training!” Calcedny looked puzzled.

“That can't be right. It’s barely been ten minutes.”

Cheria fumed; Calcedny flinched.

“No excuses! You’ll have to do better than that if you want to prove that you have what it takes. Trust me, the love of your life will appreciate what you’re going through! A strong knight can protect those he cares about, you know,” she ranted, pushing gently, but insistently, at his dominant arm. “And to make sure that you don’t become distracted, I’m heading back to the bubble.” As he was bewildered by her shift in attitude and he was skinny as bones, Cheria easily led him over to the spot he’d been swinging the sword monotonously and turned away the second she planted him there. He made no protest to keep her around or refuse the training she’d made him continue. There. That’ll do him some good!

Once she reached the particular area of foliage she’d emerged from, she heard Calcedny thank her for her company—and for listening, which was probably the real reason for his frank gratitude. Cheria managed a nod, uneasy laughter, and a word of departure before she truly left, in the same direction as the wind that once again carried the sounds of a sword being swung. Cheria’s expression on her trek back to the elevator was sober and deflated, and her heart throbbed from more than just the rush of running.

Stupid Asbel.

Walter and Zelda, stalking Shirley and Link being buddies together

Zelda found Walter behind a bush. She had the decency not to point out the obvious, because she was behind a bush, too.

Regardless, the image was a peculiar one: stern and withdrawn Walter with little leaves and twigs sticking out in every direction from the wool of his attire and his hair (to think it had looked so nice earlier), and a browning leaf nestled in the crook of his cape near the nape. Walter himself was positioned behind the thicket like some manner of lion observing his prey. His utter indifference to the oddity of the situation compounded to the surreal atmosphere, and she dared not say a word.

After all, they were both people watching—a task of great importance, considering the individuals involved. So she understood.

She really did.

Despite the threat of the lion analogy, she believed Walter to be a man of relative reason and that he would not, in fact, wrangle with Link if he felt that things between Link and Shirley were unacceptable, whatever those limits were. Zelda had faith, too, in Link, for his interaction with the young lady would be one of innocence and natural wonder, judging by their fascination with the trees and lake.

Yet Walter appeared displeased even by that much. She saw the way his eyes narrowed when Link bid Shirley to come closer to the edge of the water, the way his hands curled into fists when Shirley obliged, and the way he fumed so quietly that Zelda found she was concerned for everyone present. Still, she trusted that he would, for his sake as well, stay his tried temper.

Zelda reminded herself that she was here to watch Link, and appropriately turned her gaze back to the pair of oblivious teenagers. Link was knee deep in the lake; the water climbed up to Shirley’s ankles. And although he was quite thrilled, Shirley was significantly reserved and shy about going any farther. At her angle, Zelda saw the muted murmur by the manner in which Shirley was chewing her bottom lip. Her eyes darted to and fro in visible anxiety.

Whereas he’d been quiet before, Zelda thought that Walter was now as silent as the dead buried six feet under. He’d ducked lower, so much that he was almost prostrated on the dirt. Seeing his efforts to conceal himself, she knew for whom Shirley was searching.

She signaled to him, surmising that Shirley had only guessed that Walter would be around.

If you stay here, she might notice.

Distracted by the gesturing of her hand, Walter stared. Then he shook his head. A most profound answer: No.

She had to wonder if that meant that he was confident Shirley wouldn’t find him, or that he intended to jump out and commit ungodly deeds toward Link. Judging by how he was poised behind the bush, even if he was still tense, she fancied the former. The latter would have distraught Shirley, and Walter seemed always to act in what manner he perceived to be her best interest—though in his zealous pursuit of thus, Zelda noticed, he easily overlooked what made his charge comfortable.

While Walter grew ever more furious, Shirley had started to lose some of her anxiety. She acted in a way that appeared natural to her character, smiling and taking another step deeper into the lake. At that exact moment, Walter squinted and furrowed his brows. It might have been comical, if the situation were not appearing to be graver by the second.

He was at his limit, Zelda thought, and so it was a stroke of luck that Link and Shirley suddenly shuffled away to some other part of the forest, leaving their watchers to themselves. As Walter shot up to follow, twigs falling, Zelda raised a hand to signify her interest. On his end, Walter saw and stopped, albeit with blatant impatience.

“What?” he asked sharply.

“I think we should let them be,” said Zelda, rising.

He stared at her, and then moved forward to brush past her and over the bush before them. Zelda took a step back to mirror his movement; and while she made no gesture to stop him, the response alone halted Walter in his steps.

“Get out of the way,” he demanded.

“Why don’t you investigate the lake? Just in case Shirley might have dropped anything. I’ll be doing the same for Link. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to follow them without fuss,” explained Zelda, gesturing to the lake and surveying Walter’s expression. He was uneasy, but his scowl had lessened.

He pushed past her to the lake where Link and Shirley had been treading, glancing at the reflection of the water. As Zelda took to the perimeters of the lake, he walked into it up to his knees, not even in the slightest disturbed by the coldness. His back was to her, and Zelda took the opportunity to study his movements; how he moved in the water as though he were walking on land, and how there seemed to be a glow about him—perhaps it was her hopeful imagination, remembering the time his hair had glowed.

She stood when he turned back around to return to the land. In spite of herself, she smiled lightly. The whiteness of his attire might have posed problems had it been of any other material, but the vaguely water resistant nature of the wool prevented it from bearing the wearer’s skin. It was just another sign of their credibility as people of the water, she deemed, though she wasn’t about to bring it up.

Rather, she was about to offer heading on to catch Shirley and Link when Walter spoke first.

“I didn’t come here to watch her with someone else,” he said. “See him from a different place.” He referred to Link, having pieced that Zelda had come for the other member of the two-man party.

“I would, but you pick quite ideal locations for reconnaissance,” Zelda replied. “If you truly desire to be alone, I will seek another vantage point.” She also admitted that staying together would only greater the risk of being found.

Seemingly satisfied enough with the answer, Walter marched away without another word in the direction Shirley and Link had gone. They’d gone deeper into the forest, past the midpoint the large lake in the center marked. At first Zelda took the same path, before she eventually veered to the side for a detour that led her to slightly higher ground than the road Walter was using. It was therefore that Zelda, at her level, discovered that she was able to watch all present when she saw a shadow, most likely that of Walter, visible only from her angle. Yet the shadow blurred and disappeared the next moment, along with its distracting nature, and she finally settled the entirety of her attention on Link—and Shirley, as they traversed the lesser explored parts of the forest.

It was well that, in the end, Link and Shirley's "date" closed without bloodshed, for Walter had indeed had the decency not to throw himself into their midst. And Zelda? She had found the whole thing pleasant, in contrast.

Fire Emblem: Awakening OTP of Choice, cooking

When Maribelle is delayed that night, Gaius takes it upon himself to make dinner. He denies the maids and butlers the privilege, for it is his duty as husband to make his wife happy.

It starts simple, with some sugar and milk, but then he demands more of his usual routine as he reminds inwardly that Maribelle deserves more. She oftentimes works from the crack of dawn to the late evening, yet in spite of the prolonged hours of labor, Maribelle maintains her vigor throughout the rest of the night. For that reason, she'll want a fill for that petite stomach of hers; so Gaius deigns to make a meal that she will make herself full on.

He finishes and sits with the bowl of his masterpiece at the table, waiting.

When Maribelle arrives, all hot but pleased with the day's achievement, she quirks a brow at his stationary position.

"My, Gaius," she begins, handing off her cloak to a maid, "what ever has you so tied down? Normally you're so . . . up and about." Finally spying the bowl on the table, she daintily steps on over, her lips pressed in curiosity.

"Oh, well, you know." Gaius waves. "I made this for you." He pushes the bowl forward.

Maribelle stares, though not with disdain. Though not with a drool hanging off her lips, either, though he probably should not have been expecting that, as Maribelle wouldn't do something so "uncouth." If he had to be honest, he would be doing that exact uncouth thing.

"And this is . . . "

"Oh!" Gaius stands, enters the kitchen abruptly, and, after rummaging through the counter of the kitchen next door, comes back in with a peculiar apparatus; a proud invention of his. Maribelle still stands patiently, so he continues: "You'll need this."

"Yes, Gaius, I understand that I need that," Maribelle says, her brows furrowed. "But it does not explain what these are." She picks up the bowl and taps its contents. "Sweets? This late?"

"Well, yeah. You're gonna need those if you want to use this. Here," he says while setting down the apparatus. He quickly sets to work, taking the bowl from Maribelle as a gentleman should in a "manner-ful" way all the while.

Soon, there's melted chocolate running from the apparatus, and Gaius stands back, pleased.

Maribelle's brow is still quirked, on the other hand.

"Look." He takes a pick and stabs a marshmallow – an orange one of the bunch – and runs it through the chocolate waterfall. "Fondue."

Maribelle's brow is still quirked.

" . . . so?" asks Gaius. "Want to eat it? It's good." He offers the chocolate-coated marshmallow on the pick to her. While Maribelle takes it, she also holds it hesitantly before popping the sweet into her mouth and chewing deliberately, slowly. " . . . well?"

She shakes her head. "Well, it is certainly excellent," she starts, "but what I do not understand is why this is here and the usual course is not."

Gaius smiles his trademark smile, all confident and expecting, then answers: "That'll be my doing. Because this here, you see, will be your dinner!"

Maribelle's brow is still quirked.

"Gaius?" she asks finally.

"Yeah?"

"One cannot have fondue for dinner."

"Why not?"

"It is simply not done!"

"Well, it'll be done now!"

In the end, it is done and Maribelle admits in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind that fondue does, in fact, make a sweet dinner.