It’s a small, delicate spoon carved from pale white bone.
One end has been hollowed out with painstaking care into a shallow, perfect oval cup. The handle is slender, tapered specifically to fit a grip much smaller than his own.
It looks like he took the concept of the giant communal ladle and shrank it down, refining the shape until it wasn’t just a stirring stick.
I blink, thinking the fever is making me hallucinate.
It’s a scoop. A personal-sized ladle.
And it’s beautiful.
My breath catches with a hitch that hurts my chest.
“Heh-low, Mih-kay-lah.” He shapes the English greeting with immense care, as if he has practiced it in his head a thousand times. “Your… coo-keen… is good. You… are bee-yoo… bee-yoo-tee…” He frowns, forcing his tongue around the syllables. “Bee-yoo-tee-ful.”
His throat works for a moment.
“I… made this… for you.”
I stare at the object in his massive palm.
The memory hits me.
Sitting in the sick bay with Erika and Jacqui, watching him huddled over a piece of bone. Erika had joked he was making hollow-point death spikes. I had argued that his posture was wrong for weapons. That it was precision work.
I was right.
But he must have been planning this long before that. He must have been watching me wrestle with the giant communal ladle, sweating and cursing as I tried to serve stew with a tool meant for a giant.
He wasn’t making a weapon.
He was makingthis.
“You made this?” I whisper. My voice is thick. “For me?”
He dips his chin once in a quick, almost shy nod. “Yesss.”
I reach out. My fingers are still shaking, but I take the spoon from his palm.
It’s warm from his skin. It’s smooth as glass.
And the balance… God, the balance is perfect. It settles into my grip as if it belongs there.
“Sarven,” I say, and I have to stop because there is a lump in my throat the size of the gourd.
I’ve been given gifts before. Jewelry. Flowers. The usual stuff.
But this?
“It’s beautiful,” I manage. “Thank you.”
His glow flares brighter, a wash of gold that lights up the tunnel. He looks pleased. Ridiculously, endearingly pleased.
“Use,” he urges, pointing to the open gourd.
I sniff hard, willing the tears back, and dip the spoon into the fruit.
The small bone spoon slices easily into the flesh. I scoop out a perfect mouthful. I don’t have to touch the food. My dirty hands stay on the handle, far away from what I’m eating.
