Chapter 36: Ch 36: The Cookie and the Circus

Ch 36: The Cookie and the Circus

Ten minutes later, Orion was no longer standing awkwardly at the edge of the training yard. He was seated on a worn wooden bench under the shade of a large oak tree, the epicenter of a whirlwind of military hospitality.

A heavy stoneware plate, miraculously procured from gods-knew-where, sat in his lap. It was piled high with an assortment of cookies—some looked like rough oat biscuits, others were misshapen lumps of gingerbread, and a few were delicate, buttery shortbread that had clearly been stolen from a higher-quality tin. There were at least two dozen.

Around him, the entire training yard had transformed. The serious drills had been completely abandoned. Instead, roughly forty men—now most of them hastily pulling on tunics or wiping their faces with towels—milled about in a state of organized chaos. They were all focused on one mission: making the captain’s mate feel welcome.

Orion took a small bite of a crumbly oat biscuit. It was dry and a bit bland, but earnest. He chewed slowly, watching the circus unfold.

"Move your hulking carcass, Jax, you’re blocking the light!" a man yelled.

"I’m trying to see if he needs more tea!" Jax bellowed back, holding a steaming metal mug that looked suspiciously like it belonged to a field kit.

Someone had produced a small, three-legged stool and placed it next to Orion’s bench. On it sat a chipped ceramic cup filled with a dark, fragrant brew that smelled of black tea and honey. A young man with fiery red hair and eager blue eyes—Corin, Orion remembered—was carefully adjusting the stool so it was "just right."

Another soldier, the lean Omega who’d first made the connection, was quietly directing traffic. "Loren, for the last time, put your shirt on. You’re sweating like a pig and your scent is all over the place." His voice was calm but carried a sharp edge.

Loren, the flirtatious one with the curls, pouted but yanked a linen tunic over his head. "You’re no fun, Kaelen."

"This isn’t about fun," Kaelen shot back, his grey eyes scanning the group. "It’s about not overwhelming a guest. You there, Bren—stop looming. Sit down. You look like you’re about to challenge him to a duel."

A hulking Beta named Bren blinked and immediately plopped down cross-legged on the sandy ground, looking up at Orion with sheepish curiosity.

Others were still shouting orders at each other, their voices overlapping in a symphony of gruff goodwill.

"Someone get the good honey! Not that tar from the stores, the stuff Cook hides!"

"He doesn’t need more honey, he needs a proper seat! This bench is rubbish!"

"My sister sent me dried plums! They’re in my kit! Fetch them!"

"Dried plums? He’s not a granary mouse! Get the candied nuts from the officer’s mess!"

"Who says we can get into the officer’s mess?"

"I do! For the captain’s mate, we storm the gates!"

Orion watched, utterly bemused. He took another bite of cookie. This one was ginger, strong and spicy. He saw Aster, the scarred and steady one, leaning against the oak tree with his arms crossed. Aster was watching the pandemonium with the weary affection of a shepherd watching his flock tumble down a hill. He caught Orion’s eye and gave another small, apologetic shrug, as if to say, See what I have to deal with?

The efforts to control behavior and scent were particularly amusing. Big, battle-hardened Alphas and Betas were suddenly self-conscious, elbowing each other.

"Mind your aura, Evander, you’re projecting ’territorial bear’."

"I am not! I’m just standing here!"

"Well, stand quieter."

"How does one stand quietly?!"

One burly man with a beard kept surreptitiously sniffing his own armpit and grimacing. Another was trying to subtly fan his tunic to air himself out.

They were, Orion realized, trying to be polite. In their own loud, chaotic, overwhelmingly physical way, they were attempting to create a socially acceptable environment for an Omega noble. It was the most bizarre and heartfelt thing he had ever witnessed.

A fresh wave of offerings arrived. A wooden bowl of candied almonds, pilfered from somewhere, was presented with a flourish by Loren. A small linen pouch of dried, sweet plums was gently placed on the bench beside him by Corin. Someone else brought over a wedge of hard cheese and a hunk of brown bread on a piece of clean cloth.

"In case you’re hungry later," the man mumbled, before retreating quickly.

Orion looked down at the growing treasure trove in his lap and around his feet. He wasn’t just being offered snacks; he was being given tributes. These were their prized personal possessions, their little luxuries, offered freely to him because he belonged to Abel.

He felt a lump form in his throat that had nothing to do with the dry biscuit.

Kaelen, the Omega soldier, finally managed to shoo everyone back enough to create a semi-circle of seated men on the ground. They all looked at Orion expectantly, like students waiting for a story.

The sudden quiet was almost louder than the noise had been.

Orion swallowed his bite of cookie. He took a sip of the tea. It was strong and sweet, exactly how Abel liked it. The thought made his chest ache.

"These are very good," he said finally, holding up the oat biscuit. His voice sounded small in the clearing.

It was as if he’d given a royal decree. A wave of relieved smiles broke out.

"Old Hobb makes those," Jax said proudly, pointing a thick finger at the cookie. "He’s our company cook. Puts extra oats in ’em for strength."

"The ginger ones are from my mum," a younger soldier piped up from the back. "She sends a tin every month."

Orion nodded, looking at each speaker. "Please thank them for me."

Another round of happy murmuring.

Aster pushed off from the tree and came to sit on the other end of the bench, leaving a respectful space between them. He moved with a natural grace that spoke of controlled power.

"They’ve missed him," Aster said simply, his voice low enough that only Orion and the closest men could hear. "We all have. The... the household guard is different now. More politics. Less... well, less Abel."

Orion understood. The Valerian household guard was likely full of men loyal to the Duke, or to Ashford. These men in front of him were something else. Abel’s personal unit. His real guard.

"He misses you too," Orion found himself saying. He didn’t know if it was entirely true—Abel’s memory was such a patchwork—but it felt right. "He talks about battles sometimes. In pieces. He remembers the snow at the Southern Pass."

A collective sigh of something like grief and pride went through the men. Jax’s eyes grew suspiciously bright. Corin looked like he’d been handed a holy relic.

"He led the charge," Jax said, his voice gruff. "They said the pass was lost. He said ’follow me.’ And we did. We always did."

"He wasn’t just brave," Kaelen added quietly, his sharp eyes softer now. "He was clever. He knew when to fight and when to talk. Saved us from a siege once by negotiating with a bandit chief’s daughter. Gave her his favorite knife."

Loren snorted a laugh. "Ate dinner with them afterwards. Drank their terrible wine."

For the next half-hour, they talked. Orion listened, eating cookies and sipping tea, as stories poured out. Stories of Abel’s reckless courage and unexpected compassion. Of his booming laugh that could be heard across a camp. Of his habit of giving his own rations to the youngest soldiers. Of the time he’d single-handedly held a bridge against six men to let his unit retreat, and emerged covered in blood but grinning.

This was the Abel the world had forgotten. The Abel his family dismissed. The leader, the warrior, the man who inspired absolute loyalty.

Orion felt a fierce, protective love swell in his chest, so strong it was painful. This was who they had taken from the world. This was the mind that had been shattered.

He also realized something else. These men, by sharing these stories, weren’t just reminiscing. They were trusting him. They were handing him the pieces of their beloved captain and asking him, silently, to keep them safe. To care for the man who was left.

Finally, Aster cleared his throat. "We should let you get back. Lord Abel will be looking for you."

There was a general rumble of agreement, though laced with disappointment.

Orion stood up. He carefully placed the half-empty plate of cookies on the bench. He looked at the circle of faces, these rough, kind, loyal men.

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it for more than just the food. "For the stories. For... for caring about him."

He paused, then added, his voice gaining a little strength, "He’s happy. With me. I make sure of it."

It was a promise. To them, and to himself.

Nods all around. Respectful. Accepting.

As Orion turned to leave, brushing sand from his robes, Loren called out, "Come back anytime, m’lord! We’ll teach you to use a sword! For self-defense!"

"Against whom?" Orion asked, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time.

Loren’s grin turned wicked. "Oh, you never know when you might need to poke a bothersome younger brother."

Laughter echoed in the training yard, loud and free.

Orion walked back towards the woods, the folded umbrella in his hand feeling less like a walking stick and more like a scepter. He carried with him the weight of the cookies in his stomach, the warmth of the tea, and the solid, comforting knowledge that he and Abel were not as alone in this hostile house as he had feared.

He had just stumbled into an army. And, he realized with a dawning sense of possibility, they had just adopted him.