Freya’s crimson eyes softened as she looked at the woven braid of wildflowers Myra offered. She reached out a slender finger and gently touched the delicate petals, a faint smile gracing her lips.
“Myra,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly wistful tone, “these are… beautifully made. The colors are so vibrant. Thank you.” As she held the braid, her gaze seed to drift inward, a distant look clouding her usually sharp eyes.
A fleeting image flashed through her mind – a younger version of herself, a child with tousled hair and an innocent smile, her small hands clutching a ssy, uneven bouquet of wildflowers, their stems broken and their petals slightly bruised. She rembered the pure joy she had felt as she offered this clumsy gift to the woman in the picture fra, her heart overflowing with affection. The woman’s gentle smile in return, the way she had carefully admired each imperfect bloom, was a mory that ti had sohow preserved in its vividness. The unexpected gift from Myra, so carefully and lovingly crafted, had unexpectedly unlocked this tender fragnt of a long-forgotten past, a poignant reminder of a ti when her own heart had been unburdened by the weight of centuries.
Freya’s gaze returned to Myra, the fleeting shadow of the past receding from her eyes, though a hint of wistful tenderness still lingered. She took the braid of wildflowers from Myra’s hand, her touch surprisingly gentle.
“Thank you again, Myra,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual. “This is a thoughtful gift. I shall… find a place for them.” She turned her attention to the basket of bread, lifting the edge of the cloth covering it, inhaling the warm, yeasty aroma. “And freshly baked bread… a truly delightful offering. You are most kind.”
There was a genuine appreciation in her words and her deanor, a sense that Myra’s simple gifts, offered with such sincerity, had touched her in a way that her vast collection of ancient artifacts rarely did. The echoes of her childhood mory seed to have softened her usual reserve, creating a more intimate and heartfelt connection between them.
“Would you… would you like to try so of the bread, Freya?” Myra asked, a hopeful glint in her eyes. “My grandmother taught how to make it. It’s her special recipe.” She bead with a quiet pride, eager to share this small piece of her ho and her life with the enigmatic woman who had helped her so much.
Freya’s crimson eyes t Myra’s, and a subtle internal conflict flickered within them. She knew, with a certainty born of centuries, that mortal food held no sustenance for her. Ingesting it would likely lead to discomfort, perhaps even illness, a consequence of her altered physiology. Yet, seeing the genuine eagerness in Myra’s expression, the heartfelt offering, she hesitated. She didn't want to disappoint the young woman, to dismiss her thoughtful gesture so readily.
With a barely perceptible sigh, Freya reached out and took a small piece of the warm bread. She brought it delicately to her lips, inhaling its comforting aroma once more. Then, with the utmost care, she took a tiny nibble, her expression remaining neutral as she considered the texture and the slightly sweet taste. It was a re morsel, hardly enough to register, but it was a gesture of acceptance, a silent acknowledgnt of Myra’s kindness.
As the tiny piece of bread touched Freya’s tongue, a peculiar sensation rippled through her. It wasn't the satisfying surge of energy she craved, but a strange, discordant feeling that settled uncomfortably in her stomach. A subtle wave of nausea began to rise, her body instinctively recoiling from the foreign substance. It felt… wrong, alien.
Trying to mask her growing discomfort, Freya swallowed the minuscule bite. “This is… quite interesting, Myra,” she said, her voice carefully neutral, though a slight strain was detectable. “Tell … how is it made? What are the ingredients you use?” She hoped to understand the composition, perhaps identify what was causing her body’s unusual reaction.
Myra watched Freya intently, her initial hope beginning to fade as she observed the almost imperceptible tightening around the vampire’s lips and the slight paling of her already pale complexion. “Well,” Myra began, her brow furrowing with concern, “it’s mostly just flour, water, yeast, a little bit of honey for sweetness… and my grandmother always adds a touch of garlic. She says it keeps away… well, it’s just sothing she always does.” As the word “garlic” left her lips, Myra’s eyes widened in dawning realization. The legends… the stories… could it be true?
A faint, almost imperceptible wince flickered across Freya’s face as Myra uttered the word “garlic.” Her crimson eyes widened slightly, and a look of sudden comprehension, bordering on distaste, washed over her features.
“Garlic, you say?” Freya repeated, her voice now carrying a distinct undertone of surprise and discomfort. She gently placed the remaining piece of bread back in the basket, her touch almost repelled. “Yes, Myra. Garlic. It is… an ingredient that is rather… incompatible with my… constitution.”
She offered a wry, though slightly strained, smile. “Let’s just say that for beings such as myself, garlic possesses properties that are… less than agreeable. It can cause… a rather unpleasant reaction. Think of it as a potent… natural repellant, specifically designed for our kind.” Her explanation was brief but conveyed the clear aversion.
Myra’s face fell, her earlier pride and happiness dissolving into a wave of mortification. “Oh, Freya! I… I had no idea! I’m so incredibly sorry. My grandmother… it’s just a staple in her bread recipe. I would never have… Please forgive .” Her voice was filled with genuine distress and a dawning understanding of a significant aspect of Freya’s nature. She felt foolish and deeply apologetic for her unintentional blunder.
“Is there… is there anything I can do?” Myra asked, her eyes wide with concern. “Anything to… to help?” She felt terrible for having caused Freya discomfort, her well-intentioned gift having backfired so spectacularly.
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