Pity, God, the Magyar, then,

Long by waves of danger tossed;

Help him by Thy strong hand when

He on grief's sea may be lost.

"Good evening, Cetingrad. I'm pleased you could come and eat with me."

"It's my pleasure, ma'am."

"Please. Call me Szent or Istvan. But both is simply a mouthful. In turn, may I call you Cetin?"

"Of course." She smiled.

It was a bit strange seeing one of the empire's proudest battleships donning an apron as she prepared to cook, but Cetin supposed that was the contradiction inherent to shipgirls as a whole. Cetin worked off her gloves, setting them down next to Szent's pair.

"May I help you, Szent?"

"Certainly. Just wash first."

Cetin went at it, using the sink to clean as Szent got started on some egg noodles. There was a whole pile of ingredients next to her: fish, flour, and spices, just to name a few. It seemed a bit much for any single person to tackle alone.

It wasn't difficult work, even if some part of Cetin instinctually prickled when asked to do cooking. A lot of the boys on her ship expected her to be some sort of domestic just because she happened to be a girl in a skirt…

She had heard that their sisters in Germany were facing a similar uphill battle, while the Syndicalists gave theirs a bit more freedom. The Americans had some conservative and liberal back and forth about what exactly a shipgirl was supposed to be, probably a little inflamed by their first two, Nevada and Pennsylvania, being independent, mature bombshells.

But Szent was no Pennsylvania, even if you disregarded unflattering numerical comparisons. She was an Austria-Hungarian ship when the very concept of Austria-Hungary was being questioned by Magyar politicians, when Illyria sat on lands once possessed by the crown of Saint Stephen. (Szent's own namesake.)

As they worked, Cetingrad noticed that they had one pot too many for what they were cooking. Still, Szent filled it with water and set it to boil, despite the lack of anything to cook. She would have thought of coffee if they didn't have a kettle around and a glass of wine waiting at the table.

"Do you own a knife, Cetin?"

"Ma'am?"

"Szent, not ma'am."

"Right. And no, I don't have one." If she bothered to ask, she could probably get an army piece– some girls carried pistols– and she supposed that Szent seemed the type.

"Congratulations," Szent said, pulling two knives from under her apron. They were exactly the same, down to the rugged leather sheaths. "Do you have a preference?"

"Left." She was expecting Szent to walk over and give her the blade, but Szent pulled both out of their sheathes, before setting the naked blades in the steaming pot of water. "What's that for?" Cetin asked, scooting back a tiny bit.

"Disinfecting." Szent did not elaborate further.

Their meal was finished and the knives still sat as they measured out two portions for themselves. There was a rich, delicious smell wafting up from the fisherman's stew, vividly red with paprika. After blowing a bit to control the temperature, she took a sip.

"Pheeeew…" Cetin breathed. "That's hot."

"Good, though." Szent grinned.

"Thank you for inviting me, Szent."

"It's my pleasure. We don't get many chances to talk with like-minded individuals, do we?" She might have just meant the general loneliness of being a shipgirl. With training missions in the Mediterranean proper and schmoozing inland, it could be hard to settle down for a relaxing meal with a comrade without someone butting in.

But that wasn't what she meant. Weeks of quiet glances and careful probing, the two of them testing each other, trying to get a true measure of what the other wanted. They were both aware that they weren't really meeting for soup and dessert wine.

Speaking of, Szent stood up from the table with their plates, depositing them in the sink as she grabbed the bottle and a glass. One glass.

She placed it on the table, dead center, before pulling out a kerchief from a pocket and laying it out on the table, white cloth and embroidered yellow flowers contrasting against dark, aged wood. She didn't even sit down before turning around and going to the stove to grab the pot… knives still inside.

Cetin's eyes followed the blade's handles as Szent set the pot down on the kerchief. The water was still hot, and the blades had to be nearly as hot by now. Disinfecting… well, being in boiling water for the course of a meal would probably kill just about anything. The blades, at least, would be painfully hot, and it was possible the heat had worked its way up to the tang and maybe even the handle.

"What's this for, Szent?"

"Have you read the histories, Cetingrad?"

"I've studied the Weltkrieg, I suppose…"

"Right. You're not nearly as old as you look." Szent sighed. "Have you heard about the oath made before the Magyars crossed the Carpathians?"

"No, I can't say I have…"

"Some call it the first Hungarian constitution. Composed on some wild steppe… sealed in blood."

Cetingrad gulped. Considered the single glass, the wine, and the two disinfected blades sitting between her and Szent. Cautiously, she reached out and grabbed a blade by the wooden handle, just as Szent grabbed the other one.

She tried to mimic Szent's moves. Take the blade in her right and hold her left palm-up, and make a swift cut across the diagonal of the hand, without touching the flesh at the base of the thumb. It was shallow, but still stung. Perhaps some of the pain was due to the heat.

Szent held her hand out, a thin rivulet of blood pouring down her palm and trickling into the glass. A handshake. A blood oath. After a moment of hesitation, Cetingrad reached out and took her hand, the pain of the wound heightened as their wounds pressed against each other, their blood intermingling between their palms and in the glass. Istvan had a powerful stare.

But eventually, they had to let go. Szent offered her kerchief to Cetingrad, and she gratefully accepted, trying to clean up some of the blood. They'd have to properly clean the cuts later, but for now, Szent poured them a portion of wine, swirling the glass so that the wine darkened with blood.

Lifting the glass, Szent gave a toast: "For Hungary." She took a sip– Cetingrad's stomach churned– and then held the glass out so Cetin could take it.

The taste of the wine was ruined by notes of salt and metal, but that bloodied wine meant a sort of communion. They had dined together because they both loved Hungary more than the Empire. The dancing around the issue and the subterfuge and the cautious questioning had borne fruit: there was someone who dreamed the same dream. Szent had sisters by the strange measure of a shipgirl, but those were basically imposed upon her. There was a value in family, of course, but it was famously said:

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.