Pure Belgian Chocolate
A/N: Happy Halloween!
Max – "that is, Miracle Max to you, ya hoodlum, and if you aren't gonna say it with respect then get outta my range of hearing" – tried to keep up with the news. For example, some time before the "Princess Buttercup Incident", Max had just learned that Prince Humperdrrrrr-that-rotten-rat-I-hate-his-guts had picked out a bride for himself. Poor girl. It reminded him that his own anniversary was coming right up, and he should probably do something to commemorate it. He made a note in his head, circled it twice and underlined it, and promptly forgot.
One June morning, he woke up and remembered that it was his and Val's wedding anniversary. Fifty years to the day, the big five-zero. (June weddings are one of the truly ancient concepts. Ever since there have been weddings, they've been held in June.) And he had completely forgotten. Oh, sure, he'd remembered about a month ago, but then he'd gotten caught up in that fascinating dead rat their cat Vim had brought in, and then their other cat, Vigor, had gotten sick and Max had set to work creating a tiny feline miracle. And now it was June 25, and no present in sight.
Max checked: Valerie was still sleeping, snoring loudly. He patted her wispy white hair affectionately, then sprang out of bed.
He was still coaxing his feet into his slippers when he trotted out the door to the market of the nearby village. Now, what to buy? What to buy? Silk? Ribbons? A nice pair of slippers? Those cherry-flavored cough drops she liked so much? Wasn't gold the traditional gift for a fiftieth wedding anniversary? Phooey, well, that was flat out of his price range.
No – a memory rose unbidden before his eyes, of his and Valerie's first date, when he'd splurged and bought a bowl of sipping chocolate for them to share on a cold winter day. Yes, chocolate, chocolate was the only thing that would do. He checked the grocer's – no chocolate. The trader's? No chocolate. The bakery? No chocolate. Miracle Max, Chief of the Sorcerers, Galvanizer and Resurrection Man Extraordinaire, Winner of the Lazarus Award at the National Alchemist's Conference five years running, was stranded in the village square in the midst of a chocolate drought, on his fiftieth wedding anniversary.
The old man lowered himself to sit on the fountain of the town square. He leaned his elbows on his knees and sighed, totally defeated. He should have known, with the rumors of war brewing up – so, wait, wasn't this Humperdinck's fault? Humperdinck's fault for ruining the local economy and trade, and ruining Max and Valerie's wedding anniversary! That crumb bum!
But even the old Humperdinck litany couldn't keep Max's spirits up. All he knew was the bitter disappointment that he had failed his girl.
On the edge of the town square, wheels squeaked.
"Tickle your sweet tooth! Candy, chocolates, pastries, fudge, all for sale right here! Chocolate freshly imported from the vast forests of Belgium! Goes splendidly with waffles. All quite reasonably priced, if I do say so myself – doesn't anyone fancy a cup of hot chocolate this morning?"
In less time than it takes to say it, Max was up, on his feet, and running towards the voice.
A wheeled cart, painted sky blue with white wings surrounding the label "Celestial Sweetmeats" had appeared in the town square. A very tall man with blonde hair and eyes as blue as the bunting on his cart looked down at Miracle Max with a gentle smile.
"Yes? And how may I help you today?"
Max didn't lose any time with chatter: he knew exactly what he wanted for Valerie, and how much of it, and he wanted it fast. He didn't even bother trying to haggle, but it so happened that the price the salesman offered was very reasonable, indeed – while being just high enough to assure Max the quality was worthwhile.
When he actually hefted the bag of chocolate (in tasteful gold satin, too), he felt calmer, far more at ease with the world. He pulled his forelock to the salesman and grinned.
"Well, boy, you've done me a real favor and no mistake. You ever need a miracle, come down to Miracle Max, down south by Three Oak Lane, and I'll see if I can't whip something up for you. You're a real miracle worker – and I don't use that phrase lightly."
The salesman's smile was radiant. "I know, sir. I know. Now go home to your wife."
Max didn't need telling twice. He hoofed it out of that village square as fast as his legs could carry him, down the old and familiar path to his little squat hut.
Valerie was putting out the chicken feed and yawning. "Where you been?" she snapped at him. "I was worried sick, waking up an' finding you weren't there – what's that in your hand?"
"This, honey bun," Max took his wife by the hand and kissed her, "is my thank-you gift for fifty years of squabbles and sandwiches and kisses. Happy anniversary."
They shared the chocolate over breakfast, and managed to work it into lunch, too, and went out into town that evening to see the tumblers and jugglers, and when they went home, they held hands in the starlight. They had a little chocolate to nip on after their dinner. And when the day was done, they even had a little left over. Just enough to maybe coat a miracle pill, if any customer came calling.
Valerie stored the last bit of chocolate in the safest corner of the ice box… just in case.