Returning to No Applause, Only More of the Same

As Kreig left George’s room and went back into his own, he was only briefly given a look at how Sam poked her head out of her own room, grinning teasingly at her brother. George, in turn, coughed and cleared his throat in a vague attempt to regain his cool. It didn’t work too well, but by this point, Kreig had already returned to his room, closed the door and sat down at his desk. The chair creaked as he sat down.

Now that he looked closer, the blooming flowers in his room weren't just regular flowering plants, but also blooming cacti. Very pretty ones, to boot.

Kreig looked over at the window and the painting of the White Pope beside it. Such a beautiful man.

“You’ll be fine one day, Oracle Kreig,” he’d said, and his face would light up in such assured joy that Kreig could only believe him.

“You tell me that, and yet the Empire’s forces only close in. It isn’t about me, oh White One. I have outgrown my selfish and disobedient nature. You were not there, but you must understand that it is not about the Five Bodies or the cardinals or the Oracles. It is about our faith.” Kreig spoke softly, his head and body bowed down before the throne of the White Pope.

He hummed. “Who is to carry on the faith of our God, who is to host the White Roots, should the believers die? Who is to protect the people if the Oracles are defeated? You must trust me, Oracle Kreig.”

“I do trust you, oh White One. With all my heart.”

“And I do not doubt your belief. As I do not doubt you, you must not doubt me. The Five Bodies move out tomorrow, and you will bring every Oracle and soldier you can muster. Should you die, the Theocracy will live. Should you submit and relinquish your faith, so too will I die. Remain strong. Remain faithful.”

Kreig stood up. “I will, oh White One.”

The fate of the Theocracy and its people remained a mystery to Kreig all the way until his release from the Empire, until he had been thoroughly changed.

Would the White Pope approve of him now? He was the only one carrying on the will of God. The one man who had survived the death of the faith.

In all aspects, the Holy Order of White Roots was dead. Dead and buried and burnt to keep it down. Joining the God Below.

Kreig stared at the picture of the White Pope, desperately fighting the need to go down on his knees in prayer. Before he knew it, the sun was going down and there was a knock at the door. He turned to look at it. Nobody entered. A muffled voice spoke on the other side. “Uh, hey, Kreig? We’ll be having dinner in like a quarter, do you wanna join us, or?... You do eat, right? Considering that comment about the restroom, I just… Eating is important. Otherwise, we die. I think.”

Kreig stood up and opened the door, finding Sam just outside. She looked up at him, wrinkled her forehead, scratched her chin, and spoke again. “Wait. Is this about your weird race? Divine Human or whatever?” Kreig wasn’t sure what to tell her. “Hold-, hold on. I’m not racist for asking that, am I?...”

She wasn’t. Though, she wasn’t correct either.

Being able to go without eating and sleeping was an effect of the Warrior’s Breath (X) skill, but being able to eat without creating any useless byproducts was a trait of his race. Even so, despite eating being entirely optional, he turned to her and spoke in the affirmative. “I’d love dinner.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, but, uh… Yeah! Okay, let’s go!” Sam answered, giving a grin to threaten the moon.

Both she and Kreig soon entered into the hall, where Kreig lumbered after her as she walked to the kitchen, glancing back at him just to make sure he was following along, which he was. But even then, when they emerged into the kitchen to find half of it flooded with black smoke, Kreig wasn’t surprised in the least, as he’d smelt the putrid odour of charred flesh the moment he stepped out of his room.

George stood by the stove but turned around as they entered the kitchen. His apron was covered in soot and he seemed suitably perturbed. “Dinner isn’t finished yet.” He spoke with a voice as pleasant as a coughing crow.

“Oh, is that so?” Sam asked. “Well, I’ll set the table while you finish up! Kreig, will you help me?” Her eyes were so full of innocence. So ignorant of how terribly burnt the food was. Kreig wasn’t sure if the proper response was to take over the food-making part or to help her set the table. In the end, as her eyes turned like that of a puppy, he had no choice but to do the latter.

“I’ll help.”

Sam smiled and motioned for Kreig to follow her as she moved towards the cupboards. Meanwhile, George seemed occupied with trying to scrape at the charred remains of whatever he’d been trying to make. Sam removed two plates from the cupboard, reconsidered her decision, and took out a third one. She handed them to Kreig, alongside three pairs of cutleries she’d grabbed from a sliding drawer.

In turn, Kreig brought them over to the small dinner table (enough for four) and placed everything out. Fork on the left, knife on the right. Just like it was always done.

Sam disagreed.

“Uh, Kreig, it’s the other way around,” she said just as she sat down the cups in all the right places. Kreig could only watch in silent bafflement as she placed the forks on the right sides and the knives on the left. And yet, he couldn’t disagree with her. All his life (apart from around 17 years, it seemed) the fork had always been on the left. Even when he came to Earth in the prison, that had remained true, though it was most likely since almost everyone from the otherworld had their cutlery in that position. He’d accept it, but if anything else was too different, he might have a few problems.

A few more details on the table (water, coaster for the pots and pans etc) and everything was ready. Kreig turned solemn eyes on George.

Whatever was stewing on the stove wasn’t even proper food anymore. When George sat a pan filled with ashes and charcoals and a pot filled with indescribable white pulp on the table, his face was right on the cusp of true anger. It was almost red and his eyes were almost bloodshot. He sat down, and Sam followed suit. She was smiling, and Kreig couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

“Dig in.” That was all George would say on the matter. Going by Sam’s eyes all aglow, she wouldn’t hesitate.

Now, all things considered, Kreig would hypothetically be able to eat it. Due to the skill Divinity, any impurity within him would be cleansed, a passive effect that was also caused by his race as Divine Human. However, that didn’t mean his taste buds would take kindly to it, or, especially, his (trace) morals. It was his first night home. Was he really about to eat charcoal simply because his siblings had made it?

...Well, yes, but it was more than that. Could he accept, as their brother, that they should eat this?

He could accept eating charcoal, but he couldn’t accept letting them eat it.

He glanced at George, quickly grabbing his eye and establishing eye-contact. For some reason, his brother flinched, as if being passively watched by Kreig was something terribly uncomfortable. Kreig decided not to force George to be the one to break the silence. “Brother dearest… If I may, will you possibly grant me the pleasure of supplementing this meal with a dining of my own creation?”

George squinted and wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelt something rancid. He glanced at the food, noticing bitterly how Sam had already shovelled a large spoon of white goop into her face. Even then, he hardly seemed joyous. “...Are you sure, Kreig? I never thought you were a cook…”

“I know enough to improve upon this.” He felt terribly rude for just suggesting it, but since George hadn’t completely rejected it, he might still have a chance.

“...Sure, go ahead. Be quick, though.”

In a single moment, Kreig’s heart was filled with elation. He stood up, wandered over to the kitchen, and took a deep breath, taking it all in. There was a cupboard filled with spices over there. Another filled with dry ingredients next to it. The fridge held many groceries he recognized, pork cutlets, various vegetables he did (and didn’t) recognize, curiously lacking the chocolate cake, lactose produce, a startling lack of mushrooms (since it was one of the staple foods back in the otherworld), and everything he needed to make a proper meal.

Despite what one might think from appearances, Kreig was an expert cook. Despite how long ago it’d been the last time he cooked. Despite all his time without so much as touching a loaf of bread… He knew how to cook.

He got right to it.