Dinner Date [Yaksha/Zeda]

Busy days, busy nights. That was the key to making it through the rough times, Yaksha found. If he kept himself busy, he could almost forget the crippling hunger. The ravaging pain. If he made sure to rub as many elbows as possible, to shake hands and kiss babies, if he kept his escalator wit under control, he could almost convince himself it was a month prior, and everything was going just perfectly. He could forget all about the moments that had marked him forever, moments that had left him withered and broken, scars that even his impressive capacity for healing couldn't undo.

He leaned over the pot, inhaling deeply, and then reaching out with a spare hand, to draw forth a vial of what looked to be assorted herbs, throwing it into the pot along with water that boiled vigorously, filling the air with various delightful savory smells. He could almost forget about the cane in his other hand, clutched so tightly that it almost felt fused to the flesh. He could almost ignore the twinging in his back as he turned, and began to limp towards the table, setting it slowly, with meticulous care. If he kept himself fully absorbed in the rituals of sharing a meal, he could almost feel human again.

He had been lounging in somewhat of a funk, since the day Mirja had -once again- swept into his life, leaving all manner of refuse and unwanted excrement in her passing, and expecting him to clean it up somehow. He had spent a few days just trying to recover, to heal, but he found that the time and energy it took was just...too monumental. He would likely die, or lose too much of himself in the process. And so he had simply tried to wait it out, to allow himself to reach the closest approximation to normal he could hope for. He still felt as if his spine were filled with steel hooks, dragging against his nerve endings time and time again, but pain was nothing new to him. Even so, it had left him a wreck, hardly fit to pursue his normal passions.

He'd taken a 'sabbatical' as he termed it, showing up only rarely in public, and always in some unexpected guise, to get what he needed to make it through the tougher days. He'd despaired that this was the limit of his capabilities, that he was going to die on the very doorstep of what he had sought, and worked so hard for. And yet, here he stood, preparing one last dinner plate, for his vaunted guest. He inhaled deeply once more, rib bones outlined in painful detail against his chest, and shoulderblades exposed far too much in the back, as he went back about his work. He was withered now, nearly all the time...a man who looked wasted, eaten up by cancer or something equally virulent. And in a very real sense, he was.

"Alright, Captain Zeda. Let's see if this is my last hurrah, or the hail mary I've been looking for."