Page 8 of The Beauty and His Beast

He glanced at Everild, his expression one of polite disbelief. “Will they… serve that?” he asked, his voice filled with a quiet sense of concern.

Everild watched his husband with a soft chuckle. “The gelatin’s more for ornamentation than for eating,” he explained. “But if you want to try it, I’ll have someone cut you a slice.”

Camdyn’s face flushed slightly, his hand waving in a quick, dismissive gesture. “No, no. Thank you. It just looked… interesting,” he said quickly, though it was clear the oddity of it still lingered in his mind.

The meal began slowly, and the couple opted to sip the strong, spiced wine, which was deep red and potent—certainly nothing a monk would ever have drunk in his monastery. When Camdyn pulled a face after taking a sip, Everild took it upon himself to order their wine diluted with honey and water, hoping the sweetness would be more to his husband’s liking.

“Anything you want to try?” Everild asked, leaning in slightly, his voice low and gentle.

Camdyn took a long drink and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I thought there might be something… more familiar? Something from home—sorry, from the monastery, I mean. But everything here was either… I don’t know what it is, or it looked so nice that I wasn’t sure if I should even eat it.”

Everild nodded in understanding, his eyes softening as he regarded Camdyn. “What did you eat at the monastery?”

Camdyn brightened at the question, as though the simple memories of his past provided a comfort. “Well, oatmeal for breakfast. Sometimes with salt and dried fish, and sometimes with honey and fruits—fresh or dried, depending on the season.” He paused thoughtfully. “I liked it with fruit and honey, especially. Cooked apples were the best, I thought. And for supper, we had bread we baked ourselves that morning, with cheese. Dinner was usually stew. Rice, lentils, vegetables, and herbs from the garden, with a little fresh milk. I took care of the cows, actually. One of the brothers couldn’t handle them, but when I got old enough, I took over. They were sweet cows.”

As he spoke, Everild’s mind drifted to the subtle detail of Camdyn’s smooth, clear skin, and he wondered if the life of a milkmaid had something to do with it, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Camdyn’s upbringing, filled with simple, hearty meals of grains and vegetables, seemed so different from the rich indulgence of today’s feast, and it was clear that what he really wanted now was something that would help him feel more at ease, something familiar and comforting.

Everild cleared his throat and gave his husband a smile. “I’ll pick some dishes for you,” he said, “and you can try a little of each, see what you like.”

Camdyn blushed and nodded quickly. “Oh! Okay. Yes, please. Thank you, my lord. Everild.” He smiled shyly, a small, genuine smile that made Everild’s heart swell.

After a moment’s consideration, Everild decided on a few lighter options for their first course. He chose a mixture of chopped beet greens, spinach, and leeks, blanched and simmered in butter and breadcrumbs. There were roasted carrots, both orange and purple, dressed with white wine, vinegar, and herbs. And a small bowl of rice broth, fragrant with saffron, almond, and chicken stock.

The plate was set before them, vibrant and colorful, and Camdyn looked delighted. He picked up the bowl of broth with both hands, inhaling the steam as it curled around his face, and took a careful sip. He hummed in contentment, eyes lighting up. “It’s good! Would you like to try some, Everild?”

Everild took the bowl from him, their fingers brushing briefly, and enjoyed a sip of the aromatic broth. It was rich and savory, the almond and saffron balancing the chicken stock’s earthiness. The rice had absorbed the flavors, adding depth and body to the dish. “It’s good,” Everild agreed, handing the bowl back, his heart light as he watched Camdyn’s joy.

They continued sharing the meal like this, sipping the broth, smiling shyly at one another as the chatter of the guests around them swelled and fell in waves. It was a simple, peaceful moment amidst the revelry, one that they both treasured.

As the feast continued, the platters were replaced, and more food was brought out—roasts, pies, tarts, and cakes. But soon enough, Camdyn began to notice the food disappearing, and his expression shifted into one of concern. “They’re not just going to throw everything away, are they?”

Everild shook his head. “No, the leftovers went to the servants first, and what was left after that would be distributed among the poor.” He watched Camdyn’s face, noting the worry that creased his brow.

“Will there be enough for everyone?” Camdyn asked, his voice full of genuine concern. It was sweet, a tenderness that only made Everild’s heart grow fonder.

“If you’d like,” Everild said, “we can arrange for another feast’s worth of food to be prepared and given out to the people this week.”

Camdyn’s face brightened, his joy infectious. “Oh, yes! Yes, that would be wonderful.” His smile was so pure, so full of kindness, that it made Everild feel even more certain that this life, this shared future, was the right one.

For their next course, Everild dared to be a bit bolder. He ordered cheese tartlets, small enough to fit into Camdyn’s hand, alongside an assortment of grilled mushrooms. The tartlets were a hit—Camdyn practically devoured an entire tray by himself, offering more to Everild with a wide, delighted grin. And in between each small, savory treat, Camdyn devoured a dessert, a quiet indulgence that somehow contrasted with the heaviness of their meal. They shared a whole pear, poached slowly in red wine, its deep color—dark and gleaming—like a large ruby resting on the plate, a perfect jewel of sweetness. The soft, lush fruit was paired with dollops of cream, rich and smooth, making the flavors sing. There was a delicate scattering of candied violets, their sugar coating melting away on Camdyn’s tongue like a tiny floral kiss, followed by candied citrus peels, which left a sweet, sticky film on his lips, a reminder of their sugary bite. It was almost childlike, the way Camdyn let the treats melt in his mouth with such unabashed pleasure.

Earlier, Everild had learned of his husband's love for apples in oatmeal, so he had taken it upon himself to surprise Camdyn with a chilled apple pudding, thick and creamy from almond milk, spiced with cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg, each spoonful warming and comforting. He watched with quiet joy as Camdyn's eyes lit up, the first taste bringing a wide smile,a shared moment of satisfaction. Everild felt a small pride swell in his chest, pleased by the simple happiness his effort had brought.

But the moment shifted when the roast beef arrived, its rich sauce of red wine, garlic, and pepper thickened with a hint of bread. The scent was inviting, but Camdyn faltered at the sight. He took a tentative bite, his fork hovering uncertainly. His face tightened, as though something unsaid lingered between his thoughts. “Something else?” Everild asked, his tone gentle, though he sensed something was amiss.

"There's also a stew—browned goose and onion fried in fat drippings, simmered in fresh herbs and wine," Everild suggested, but Camdyn shook his head. "Or maybe the salmon—grilled and poached, just with salt and vinegar-soaked parsley." Still, Camdyn didn't seem interested.

“No, it’s fine,” Camdyn said, his voice strained, and for a moment, Everild could see the unease there. “It’s just... odd. At the monastery, we only ate beef when we were sick, to regain our strength. And it was never seasoned as well as this. Brother Cenric, he—” Camdyn’s words trailed off. His gaze drifted down, lost in thought. “He was... He still is the herbalist. I just… I’m not there anymore.”

The weight of his loss was palpable in the soft way his voice cracked. Everild watched as Camdyn pulled inward, his thoughts caught somewhere distant and painful. “You loved him a lot,” Everild said quietly, and Camdyn sniffed, nodding slowly.

“Yeah,” Camdyn admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Everyone at the monastery raised me, but it was always Cenric I was closest to. When I was small, he'd put me on his shoulders, and we’d go to the beach or walk in the forest. Any pretty rocks or shells I found, I gave to him. And as I grew older, he was the one I could talk to about anything. It didn’t matter how silly the question, he’d always take me seriously. With theother monks, sometimes I could tell they were... irritated, but Cenric always understood.” Camdyn’s voice cracked again, his heart laid bare in the raw honesty of his words.

“He was like—” Everild murmured, finishing the thought for him. “A parent.”

Camdyn nodded, his face softening at the memory. The melancholy in the air thickened as Everild processed the grief, understanding that the absence of Cenric weighed heavily on his husband’s heart.

Nearby, Camdyn's father was seated among a few nobles, his face flushed with pleasure, a clear contrast to the tension earlier. He was no longer the source of Everild’s anger and disgust, at least not at this moment. His own fury had been tempered by the distance from the man who had sent his husband into hysterics only hours before. The wedding had gone off without a hitch, despite the undercurrent of discomfort. Everild’s eyes flickered back to the king and his companion, Dustan, who had approached their table.

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