Brothers at Breakfast

Brothers at Breakfast

Postby Treadwell » Wed May 10, 2017 3:10 am

The tenth day of the fifth month, 217.
Shortly after dawn at Myrkentown's Church of Tubbius.


Two rumbling and rolling belches blast noisily through the dining hall in the Tubbian church, audible evidence a room over that two men sit at what is dubbed among the faithful of "First Light's Breakfast." At the far end of the table, in the most sumptuously cushioned chair, sprawls a short, round fellow in a yellow robe, one of his yellow-gloved hands rubbing gently at a belly now overstuffed. To his right, a couple of inches taller and gleaming in purple with a broad white sash around his stomach, rests another member of this odd faith, equally gorged.

"Tell me, Lang, mmph mmph. . . . It has been a little over a week since Jim's ascension. How are you taking it?"

"Well, Allie, I miss his good nature and his merry jests."

"That, hm, is hardly what I meant."

Up goes fork loaded with the last of a slice of ham, dripping juices, to Langley's mouth for the munching. Blue eyes squint at the elderly baby brother. After swallowing and a moment of thinking, "I have been busy, Allie, reading over his sermons and notes and trying on his clothes, as you asked for both. His writings are quite illuminating about the faith, and his script is beautiful to read. But as for clothing, this outfit, hanging in the back of his wardrobe, is the only thing I found that fits. Everything is complete--gloves, vest, sash, boots, jumper, all of it--but it must be ancient. We both know that Jim was, ahem," another hunk of ham lifts from plate, this one stopping a few inches up, "quite plump."

"A minor preservation magic, Lang, hm hm."

"And I have been hungry, Aloisius. It is to be granted, of course, that I used to be a skinny man, as frail as Elizia was and Mother before us, and granted again that Tubbius's blessings saw that changed--praise Him!--but for the last week, well, I have barely left this table!"

"Good, good."

"And I have felt wonderful, Allie! Wonderful! I feel. . . I feel young, Allie, though I know I hardly look it."

"Eighty and two, Langley."

"Ten years older than you, yes, and three years older than Elizia, rest her soul. Eighty and two," a pause here to swallow a bite of cheese wrapped in bread, "and I feel as vigorous and hale as I did when I was. . ." Hands go up from table, wildly a-flutter, "I would say I have not felt this way since I was about forty, Aloisius! Half my age!"

"Hm hm? Do tell, brother!"

At this command, Langley blushes warm and red. "And there is more, Allie. My stomach. The Rings of Tubbius. . . they grew there the morning Jim died. Is that natural?"

"Hmph! Quite the contrary! Quite supernatural! You are bound to Tubbius, Langley. Your soul is tied to Him, belly to belly. The Rings are symbolic of that connection."

"Then, Holy Tubbius," a switch to the formal title as blue eyes squint at the younger man's stomach, "I pray that you explain Gideon. I chanced on him one morning while bathing; he shares the same marks, but he shows no love for the Church or even for being blessed." A free hand goes to a gurgly middle, patting there.

The question brings a gentle frown to Aloisius Treadwell's face.

"He is my firstborn, mortal son, Tubbius Princeps. He is blessed and marked as such. What he does with himself is up to him."

Faces wriggle into frowns amid the voluminous beards. After a minute, perhaps, there is a shake of both heads.

"We are about to near the Second Breakfast."

"Well, hm hm?"

"I think I shall nap, brother, and it is closer to my office than to my bed."

At this statement, Aloisius Treadwell chuckles, bending forward just enough to snatch a roasted, half-eaten piece of pork from Langley's plate.

"I shall after Second Breakfast, mmph mmph, but leave your plate here, Lang. You left a little behind."

"Are you always as hungry as you seem, Allie?"

"Of course I am! You only know a little of The Hunger from Tubbius, mmph. I feel it all the time."

Langley Treadwell here rises from his table. For the last week, he has had none of his former difficulty in standing from couches, chairs, pews, or stools; a mere moment's bracing out of habit, and then up he goes. Turning away as he gets up, he stops and turns back.

"Aloisius?"

"Hrm hrm?" around a mouthful of biscuit.

"Allie," a shake of the head. "Holy Father Tubbius," he corrects with a reverent bowing, "for this youth and life, I praise you, and I thank you. I will serve you as long as you want of me."

"That, mmph, my brother and son, will be for a very long time."
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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