Be sure to download the PDF for the illustrated version. The story is set in the fictional city of Gulporte, capital of my country of Talamhir. [map here: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/31493852/, buildings visible here https://www.furaffinity.net/view/51339578/ ]

Text is as follows (4,788 words):

---

Cherry Blossoms and Churros
= A Story of Talamhir =

Ventosus, for Lincoln, was the month of weeping. At least, that was how it felt to the zebra. His roommate, a rhino and a very dear friend, had been transferred from the job he'd held for the past five-year to the road survey in the Central Desert. Fieldwork! Lincoln shuddered at the thought.

The zebra was perfectly content to stay at his desk in the clark's wing—the great hollow drum that rose from the southwest corner of Wyream Palace—on the floor dedicated to the trading city of Bisect and its environs. That was how he'd met the burly rhino, and they'd found their friendship growing as they rode the trolley to and from work each day. Soon their shared flat was less a question of convenience and more a matter of amicability. Not that there was anything romantic between them; at least, that's what Lincoln had thought, but his tears when Mark told him of the transfer seemed to indicate otherwise.

Still, Lincoln had tried to keep a brave face, especially given how excited Mark was about the change: he put on a smile as he helped the rhinoceros sell his furniture and all but a few sentimental items, laughed as Mark modeled the traveling gear he was purchasing, and gave his friend a firm handshake before the caravan left through the northeastern gate.

He returned to their flat—now empty and cavernous—and tried to muster the energy to do his own packing. Tying up bundles of books and blinking through his tears, he worked slowly. Only a few days remained before he needed to be out and at his new flat. Mark had found it for him: "Since it's my fault you have to move," he'd said, writing down the address.

Lincoln was so out of sorts that he didn't even admire the sturdy build of the porter he'd hired to help him move, didn't ogle the way the mammoth’s muscles bunched as he pulled the cart. He didn't look up from his own hooves until they reached their destination. An acrid smell stung his nostrils and a cold wind blew through the dead-looking trees that lined the street like black brushstrokes on grey paper. The clark's wing rose through the morning mists, just a few blocks away.

The sound of grinding machinery and loud chatter followed him up the stairs on the side of the building. He looked down to where the porter was waiting, then back at the key in his hand. Mouthing a silent prayer, he unlocked the door and stepped into his new home. It actually wasn't much different from the flat he'd shared with the rhino, just smaller. There was also a perfect spot for a reading nook, with a low wide bench built into the wall beneath one of the windows facing the street. I bet he saw that and thought of me; Lincoln sniffled, trying to keep from crying again.

Finding nothing objectionable, he went back out and began to help the porter unload his wagon. It was late in the evening by the time the zebra's belongings were all inside, and he was too tired to do anything more than toss a few blankets on the floor and curl up on them. He slept without dreaming until the banging of doors downstairs marked the hour of opening.

Groaning, he looked at his pocket watch in the low dawn light: two o'clock, and he ordinarily didn't rise until three; the ten-hour day used in most of Talamhir made for easy calculations, but Lincoln had always felt that the hours—of one hundred minutes each—were simply too long. Still, as a bureaucrat himself, he could imagine the difficulty that would be involved in changing the whole nation to a different standard. Brushing the sleep from his eyes, he shrugged and began getting ready for the day, not an easy proposition given that his belongings were all still packed up.

He finally found some chewsticks in one box, and idly ground one between his teeth as he hunted out an outfit, the stick's minty sap masking the scent of morning breath as the fibers brushed away any detritus lingering from the previous day. Teeth cleaned and hide brushed, he donned a charcoal-grey tunic and breeches, and—looking at the chill weather outside his window—tossed on an overcloak and scarf.

Valise in hand, he locked up and headed downstairs. It was still almost half an hour before he'd ordinarily have gotten up, let alone begun traveling to the palace, so he decided to treat himself to a little breakfast. "Haroun's Coffee & Chocolate” gleamed in gold on the black paint of the shopfront below his flat, and Lincoln's nostrils flared at the smells: the tang of rye bagels, the aroma of fresh coffee, and the cinnamon fire of the thick hot chocolate so popular with the students of the great university. That explains why they open so early, he thought as he slipped through the front doors and bellied up to the counter.

The barista was a dragoness, a lung, and with that too-cheerful-for-this-time-of-day personality. She recommended the house specialty, a coffee roast called "Dragon's Ire," to which he added a seed-encrusted bagel. Lincoln nibbled his ersatz breakfast, recognizing the coffee's smoky smell as the acrid aroma he'd first noticed the night before, and looked around. Thick wooden beams peppered the space, blocking clear sight lines and creating a dozen semi-private niches. He caught glimpses of two separate courting couples, necking and whispering and giggling as they wooed, and a few tables were covered with books and papers, the debris of studying students or writers searching for that one perfect word. Thank the gods I’ve still got my own desk at work, with everything in its place; he grimaced at the thought of having to re-organize his life to fit the new flat.

Still, he had work—and that nice tidy workstation—to get to. He tossed back the last swig of coffee and placed his cup on the counter with the rest of the used porcelain. He approached the entrance and, seeing a figure approaching from the other side, bent to hold door open. "Thanks," muttered the lion, nodding his turbaned head and swishing his professorial robes past the zebra.

Lincoln found himself watching the squat, portly feline as he approached the counter and interacted with the barista. He was saying something that made her laugh, and the zebra couldn't help wondering what sort of person he was. Sighing, he stepped back outside, letting the door close behind him. He couldn't shake the irrational feeling that he'd shut the door on something more important than just a coffee shop. Get a hold of yourself, man. It's just the result of a poor night's sleep in a strange new place. It'll pass. He didn't quite believe himself, but it was enough to get his hooves stirring down the road to the clark's wing.

The day's work crept on with that odd slow quickness familiar to bureaucrats and functionaries. Throughout the day he looked up—past the decidedly rhinoless desk one aisle over—at the clocktower rising through the central hole of the clark's wing like a writing stylus stuck through a bagel. It had been built in a stack, each of the three-faced "blocks" placed level with one of the floors of the circular wing, so that with one machine the palace could regulate the time of all its functionaries. And every time Lincoln looked at the face closest to him, he saw that only a few minutes had passed since he'd last looked.

Then it was the seventh hour, and everyone around him was packing their valises and tidying their desks. He too took a moment to straighten his paperwork, arranging his desk so everything was evenly spaced and at right angles, as was required of every clark. He then joined the flood down the broad western stair.

The zebra could never help but feel that he was walking with the statistical average of Talamhir: humans and tigers rubbing shoulders with wolves and elephants, even the occasional lesser dragon. And all working together for the betterment of the whole population—though, as they shuffled past the massive, blood-red sard columns of the palace's southwestern entrance and towards the small clark's door tucked unobtrusively behind it, it seemed more like they were all more intent on getting to their dinners. Not that I blame them, he thought, feeling his stomach rumble. At least I'm closer to home now. With a sigh, he amended: Closer to my new flat.

He purchased a potato-and-leek pie from a vendor on the way, tossing the hot palm-sized pastry from hand to hand as he walked beneath the black grasping arms of the trees that lined the road. In addition to a few other food vendors, he now saw, the street seemed to be the location of several popular restaurants, including Haroun's Coffee & Chocolate. As he drew near, Lincoln noticed a turbaned figure walking away, tawny tail swishing out from underneath the familiar professorial robes. He fought a momentary urge to follow the lion: As though I had anything to say to him. And anyways, I'm too tired to be sociable. Gulping down the rest of the pie, he ascended the stairs and began the arduous task of unpacking and arranging.

It was nearly the ninth hour when he stopped; outside the window he could see strings of tiny glows spangling the air between tree branches, and there were more food carts than he'd noticed on his way home. Judging by the numbers of people strolling about—most of them arm-in-arm couples or giggling knots of friends—this street was one of the trendier nightspots in Gulporte. Lincoln sighed again and ran a hand down the stripes of his muzzle.

Mark probably thought I'd like this too, he mused as he sat and looked out of the window. A trio of street performers were going through their routine below him, two dragons tossing balls of fire back and forth, while a skinny wolf threaded between them, leaping and bounding with an energy Lincoln hadn't felt for years.

He turned away from the spectacle, but their little pyrotechnics cast shifting lights and shadows on the ceiling, catching his eye and distracting him every time he tried to get back to his repacking. Eventually he gave up and decided to just go to sleep, his eye mask blocking out the lights if not the applause. The smells of sweat, cinnamon, and frying oil wafted through his partly-open window.

Once again he was awakened by the grinding machines and banging doors downstairs, and once again he dressed and went down for breakfast. Unlike the day before, however, there was a line at the counter this morning: a human in front was chatting with the barista, the same lung dragoness as the day before, and behind him stood three other increasingly-impatient customers.

Chatting at her, Lincoln thought with a sour grin as he took his place in line. Sure enough, the human was doing most of the talking, something about how he was auditing a printing shop and got ink all over his tunic. The dragon had donned the raised eyebrows and emphatic nods of someone torn between politeness and practicality as the man kept nattering on.

"...And if you look, you can still see a bit of the ink under my fingernails. Well, not that, that's just from the inkpot I spilled yesterday. Anyways, long story: I've got a friend who—"

But the lung had leapt at the opportunity his pausing for breath finally gave. Thrusting forward the human's pastry, she spoke with eager earnestness: "Oh that is quite a story, but we can talk later; I'd hate for you to be late to work on my account."

She even looks like she means it, the zebra thought, admiring her tact.

"Oh golly, I didn't realize how late it was. Thanks Ylaire, you're a lifesaver," the human blurted as he tossed a few coins on the counter, grabbed his pastry, and dashed from the shop. Lincoln was half-surprised that the other customers in line didn't applaud her success. Still, he was glad to see them file through with practiced efficiency.

In moments, he was standing before the barista. "How did you like the Dragon's Ire blend yesterday?"

Lincoln was further impressed that she'd remembered what he himself had forgotten. "It was very good—definitely a good wake-up. But this morning I’m in search of something a bit...softer?"

"Hmm, how about the Soryal blend? It's milder, and a little sweeter too—not hot chocolate sweet, but definitely not bitter. Or there's the Sashim Fog, made with coconut milk..."

After a minute's brief discussion, the zebra settled on a drink and took it to a seat by the door, abstractly watching the customers flow in and out. His eyes drifted, looking around the shop as well. A few long minutes later, he found that he'd emptied his cup while hardly tasting it. There'd been no sign of the lion and he tried to shrug off his disappointment as he stepped back outside.

Sitting at his desk, he tried to ignore the great clock through the window. I've got to stay focused, he thought as his eyes skimmed over the growing pile of census documents for him to tally. Knuckling down, he pushed aside any thoughts of the lion, or the similarly-mountainous pile of boxes waiting for him at his apartment.

Over the next few days, Lincoln was able to force himself into the new routine. Waking with the shop below, he found himself looking forward to that morning cup of coffee and the dozen or so minutes he was able to just sit. Sometimes he'd bring something with him to read, but most days he just sat and watched people walking in and out, still keeping an eye out for a particular feline. After the long three and a half hours of work, he returned home to continue unpacking.

And so he sat on the next tenthday, enjoying his day off and sipping a minty Eret-style latte. He hadn't brought anything to read, instead opting to do nothing more than watch the people flowing in and out of Haroun's Coffee & Chocolate. Here, too, he felt like he was watching a cross-section of Talamhir, the common folk he was tasked with tallying and tracking. A gaggle of cats trooped in, chatting about classes and a "dreamy" teacher they all seemed to share, but a swarthy-skinned and dark-hided centaur stepped up behind them and blocked Lincoln's view with his—admittedly handsome—bulk.

A draka, a dragon of bulkier and stouter build than her lung cousins, was next to walk through the doors, her white silken tunic denoting her a member of the royal court, along with the zebra who stood beside her and was likely an assistant or handmaiden. And when he saw a lioness sitting daintily in the opposite corner, he wondered if the professor he'd been watching for would soon appear. He was torn between his desire simply to see the manly cat again, and his hope that the lion's taste in partners wouldn't tend exclusively toward the female.

To distract himself, Lincoln tried to view the coffee house in terms of his own work. Applying his years of experience with statistics, demographics, trends, and enumerations, he examined the shop and its customers. The gold paint he'd seen on the sign outside was echoed on the header of the menu board and the script used for the menu items was strong and clear. The dark woodwork seemed smoothed by generations of hands, but the upholstery was clean and new. Judging by the mix of clientele, Haroun's had found that midpoint between price and quality that attracted the broadest segment of society, giving the lower levels an inexpensive taste of the high life, while the upper class could enjoy their little luxuries without emptying already-strained purses.

Lincoln smirked at one of the unexpected side-perks of being in the bureaucracy: knowing what went on behind closed bank books. He was so busy with his mental tallies that he didn't notice, as he got into line for a second cup, that someone had stepped in the queue behind him. The zebra fished a few coins from his pocket and fidgeted with them; one of the small square coins slipped between his fingers and bounced on the well-worn wood planking. He could have ignored it, but the muscle memory of thrift forced him to stoop down.

When he squatted to pick it up, however, he felt his tail bump against something. "Terribly sorry," he apologized as he straightened back up.

"No harm done," replied a deep and resonant voice as he turned around. "Oh, hello; I thought I'd recognized those stripes. I've seen you around here before."

He stared from the outstretched hand to the mane-swathed face and forced a smile around his astonishment. "I just moved in," he jerked a thumb toward the ceiling.

The lion chuckled, "Well, that explains it. Oh, you're up." Lincoln blinked at him, then realization dawned and he spun around to order his refill. He waited to one side as he clutched the steaming coffee, blowing gently at the steam as he watched the lion speaking with Ylaire. The rumble of his voice, the rich tones like cherry cordial or chocolate, made his mane stand on end. But at the same time he realized something terrible: he had nothing to say.

Order completed, the lion stepped up beside him, just as he'd secretly hoped and dreaded. "Name's Anselm, Anselm D'Merek,” he proclaimed, sticking out a thick tawny hand.

“Lincoln Tars," the zebra replied, trying to appear more confident than he felt. He knew nothing about this man, only that he'd been tantalizingly out of reach all this time. Lincoln blinked and released the handshake before it lingered too long. Trying to act nonchalant, he gestured at the table where he'd been perched: there were, after all, two chairs.

"So, just moved into the area?" Anselm asked, settling down into the cane-backed chair with a soft grunt.

Lincoln nodded, and explained how he'd lived further away, in a quiet street with none of the hustle and fewer of the amenities, until his former flatmate had been reassigned.

"Ah yes, 'where the roads run out into the sands,' right?"

"Ha, I hadn't heard it described like that before, but I imagine that's accurate. What about yourself? You said you're a professor, but what do you teach?"

By way of answer, Anselm asked: ”Look around you, did you notice the delicate ogee recurves of the windows, or the tiny figures holding up the fountain's basin? Even the hand-painted letters behind Ylaine's head fall into my purview." Lincoln tried to think of what they all had in common, but could think of nothing. He opened his hands and quirked an eyebrow at the lion, who took the hint and answered his own puzzle: "Art, lad. The fifth of the quintrivium, highest of studies only to be attempted after history, poetry, literature, and magic. The study of the creations of society. My students are responsible for keeping the city around us alive with culture, rich and beautiful." He paused as a satyr strode past them, ears none-too-subtly canted in their direction.

"Really? That's fascinating," Lincoln said with genuine interest. The lion was obviously a veteran orator, used to speaking to lecture halls crowded with students, and the bass timbre of his voice seemed to bounce off he walls like rolling thunder. "And no, I hadn't even noticed that there was a fountain in here," he admitted with some chagrin. "But then, I'm usually dashing off to work. Today's my day off," he added.

Anselm nodded., "Mine too, actually. I notice your cup is empty. May I get you another? I'm enjoying this tête-à-tête and I'm in need of another beverage too. Care for a surprise?"

Feeling adventurous, Lincoln agreed, and sat back as the lion plucked up their empty cups with his thick fingers. He watched as Anselm sauntered to the counter, listened to the warm grumble of his voice as he placed his order with the lung dragon, and smiled when he glanced back at the table where the zebra sat.

The man certainly was impressive. His broad feet were planted wide beneath sturdy legs, while the swirl of his robe leant a sense of drama and motion that matched the impish twinkle in his dark green eyes. The crimson turban bobbed as he nodded to Ylaine, and his fingers nimbly withdrew the required coins from his belt pouch. It's easy to see why his students look up to him, the zebra thought, watching as Anselm deftly carried two steaming cups back to their shared table. Definitely worth the wait. He smiled up at the approaching lion. "So, shall I be surprised?"

"I should think so, unless you've been to Ydrassil."

Lincoln shook his head: he didn't want to admit that he'd never set foot outside of Gulporte, let alone visited the port city to the south-east, so famous for its almost-religious approach to cuisine. But Talamhir was a large and varied country; it was understandable that most people wouldn't have visited every city on the map. To his relief, the lion's smile broadened, showing white fangs well-polished by chewsticks: evidently he relished the opportunity to teach, in any circumstance.

"Excellent! I've found that the best drink to follow coffee is hot chocolate, and there are so many regional differences to take advantage of. I'm having what Ylaine there," he jerked his head back towards the counter, where the dragon was helping out a family of panthers, "calls a 'Kashik crunch.' See the dried jungle berries? I'm hoping some day to launch an expedition to study the ruins out east there, and every time I drink this I feel as though I'm a little closer. Silly, I know, but what man doesn't have his fancies?

"And you, my friend, are having hot chocolate a'la Ydrassil." He slid a steaming mug across the table, the thick black sludge within it topped with vibrantly-yellow crystals. "That's turmeric-infused salt, and it's made with a little pepper cooked in as well. It's supposed to be good for you, but—" he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "I just think it tastes good."

"Well, then," Lincoln grinned back, lifting up the mug. "Here's to trying new things." He bumped it against Anselm's, then took a tentative swig. The complex swirl of flavors made him sit back in his chair, dead to all other sensations but taste. The salt and turmeric—instead of canceling out the taste of the chocolate, as he'd expected—accentuated the flavor, their contrast forming a counterpoint that only heightened the sweetness of the drink, with hints of pepper serving as grace notes of dry fire.

As the sensations began to fade, he realized that the lion had been watching him, an almost predatory grin on his aristocratic face. The dark yellow eyebrows lifted and the head tilted to one side, prompting him to reply.

Finding his voice, Lincoln spoke: "That...was probably the most attention I've paid to anything I've put in my mouth, ever. Well, anything food." He mentally grimaced. What a dumb thing to say.

But Anselm was laughing, giving the table a pound with his fist for emphasis. "That's excellent! And that was my hope: that you would be open to new experiences." Now it was the lion's turn to balk at phrasing a bit more suggestive than he'd intended.

"Oh, definitely. I'm glad I've got the time to enjoy this, without having to rush off to work."

This prompted the lion to ask about Lincoln's job, and the zebra relished the attention, explaining about the layout and function of the clark's wing, and what he did there; always keeping a wary ear on what he was saying, how Anselm was reacting, for any sign of being boring or pedantic.

Thankfully, Anselm seemed to be curious about pretty much anything, and started asking questions. "What sort of flooring do they use?" "What style of numbers are on the clockfaces?" "Why are you required to arrange your desk a certain way?" And even, "What colors of ink do you use?" Things Lincoln had never really thought of before, but he tried his best to answer the professor.

Their conversation was so engrossing that both drinks were drained without either man noticing. Finding his cup empty, Lincoln gave its inside one last lick, catching a few stray crumbs of turmeric-salt along with the dried froth from the top of the cup. He savored the lingering flavor, deeply intense and exotic, just like the lion who sat before him. He placed the empty cup on the table with regret, unwilling to let the moment end.

"Perhaps," Anselm said, rising from his seat, "you'd care to take a little stroll? If you've got nowhere else you need to be..."

"I think I'd like that very much!" The zebra replied, then canted his ears back, blushing at his obvious eagerness. "It will make a nice change from unpacking," he added with a more sedate tone.

They left the shop, tossing quick waves at Ylaine as they placed their mugs with the other used cups, and started to walk. Anselm led, and immediately turned right, facing away from the palace and the clark's wing. They passed a few buildings in silence, then Lincoln noticed a familiar smell of cinnamon and frying oil. He looked up at the lion, seeing the confident sureness of his steps, as though he knew where he was going.

Standing in line at the churro cart—one of the dozen-or-so different food vendors that plied this street, seemingly at all hours—both men stood quietly with their thoughts. It looked like the horse behind the cart was having to fry up another batch, so Lincoln leaned against the black trunk of one of the trees lining the street.

It wasn't until something landed flat on the top of his snout that the zebra realized what had changed since the day he'd moved in: each one of the scraggly trees was dusted with white blossoms. His eyes crossed and he looked at the bloom that was still silhouetted on his black hide. Five white circles surrounded a fuchsia center, a drop of blood just beginning to stain white silk.

Anselm looked over at just that moment and began to laugh. "You know, Lincoln, cherry blossoms really suit you: a little pop of color to accent your stripes and those grey tunics you always seem to wear." He stepped close, raising a soft-furred hand. "May I?" Lincoln nodded and held still while the lion brushed the petals from his snout, and in almost the same motion plucked another bloom from the tree, this one with stem still attached. He tucked it behind the tall ear that tried so hard not to twitch it away. "There, actually it makes you look rather dashing."

Lincoln giggled awkwardly, unused to such attention, then tapped Anselm on the shoulder; the feeling of the solid body beneath the black robe almost made him forget what he'd wanted to say. "It...it's our turn," he managed to spit out, gesturing at the nonexistent line between them and the cart.

Once again, Anselm ordered for the both of them. "Two," he paused, glancing at the scrawled menu, then back at Lincoln, "two cherry-filled, please." As he handed over the waxed-paper sleeve with its coiling tube of steaming dough, he grinned: "It seemed an appropriate choice."

"To cherries, then," the zebra replied, tapping his churro against the lion's in a mock toast. They both blew on their snacks to cool them as they walked, and Lincoln listened while Anselm pointed out notable architectural styles and interesting design choices as they passed. And not once did he think of the absent rhino, the unpacked boxes, or the papers waiting on his desk; the zebra simply focused on the lion's voice, the taste of his churro, and the soft tickle of the cherry blossom tucked behind his ear.

---