Loved and Lost

The First Meal

The sound of birds chipping rang through my ears, awakening me from my dead slumber. The smell of meat roasting fills my nostrils and it brings me joy with bits of nostalgia. A vague memory is coming back to me. It was my dad's stew that woke me up. I was twelve and there was something about the way he roasted his meat that made his cooking untouchable compared to others. It wouldn't matter who, my dad would always win. I had left my bed to see where he was in the process. My mom, it turns out, was in the yard gathering the potatoes for his stew.

My dad sat on the wooden bench at our dining table. He was stroking the fire as he sipped his mead. The light from the roaring flames bounced off my dad's face, giving his eyes an orange glow that fit perfectly with his emerald eyes. The way he was just staring into the soul of it, left me wondering what could possibly be on his mind.

I was only a few feet in from him, his back to me when some sort of sense went off in his head. He twinged a bit, didn't even need to turn around when he called out to me. "Jits?" The way he said this nickname, he had plenty, but the way he said this particular name was gentle. It was in fact my favorite one. He shook himself from his thoughts but he left a hand spread out, urging me to come over.

I do as he says, still keeping quiet. I was always a quiet child. "You're supposed to be sleeping, child." His gruff voice reminds me. His hair is shaggy, like he just got done with training not too long ago. His voice, though, always had problems. He told me that he lost it in the great war, and that's how they won. My dad's a hero.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, hoping that he'll understand what I mean other than cooking when I'm really hoping that Hell open his brilliant mind to me sooner or later.

"I am preparing our stew. What's it look like?" He shales me on his knee, making me just about fall off of him about a dozen times. I'm yelling now, but not out of fear. I know that he would never drop me. I'm screaming because my stomach is being thrown around, which in turn is sending sensitive signals through my entire body. He only stops when my mom comes rushing in here to see the commotion, only to knit her brows together and purse her lips when she sees what we were doing. My dad has always been a quiet man. For as long as I've known him, he's never shown his feelings except to my mom, so it doesn't surprise me when he immediately becomes sheepish. Slumping his shoulders over, trying ever so hard to now let his smug smirk show. He swipes his index finger across my cheek.

It only took seconds for mom to leave the hut, but when she did, I saw my opportunity. "Can I try some mead?" I mustered up the courage as I glanced at his cup. I've never had it before, and have always been curious. My mom never allowed me to have some until I was old enough.

"Well, considering that you're getting your arm band tomorrow, I'm sure that she would not mind." She being my mother. He shrugs as his smug grin relaxes into one that shows just how intoxicated he was.

Reaching behind himself, he grabs a horn off of the table. And just as quickly, he turns back around to begin pouring the mead into it, inching his way closer to my face. His face has turned back into a smug grin across his lips, "Even so, let's not tell her." He wiggled his brows. Being the eager little girl that I was, I rapidly nodded my head.

Taking the horn from his hands, we gently clashed our horns together. My dad ingested it almost immediately, but I, on the other hand, waited hesitantly. I've always been curious about it, but respected my parents enough to stay away from it even when my friends tried to pressure me into drinking some.

Bringing the horn up to my lips, I drained the dark honey scented liquid into my mouth. Honey and fruit filled my mouth, and for a moment, it was a wonderfully intense feeling. That was, until I allowed it to go down my throat.