Chapter 7 Iris #3
"It's okay." I step closer, closing the distance he's trying to create. "You can touch me, Cadeon. I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"But I'm not." I take his hand, guiding it back up to my face. His fingers are cold against my cheek, gentle despite the strength I know is there. "See? Not afraid."
He brushes the cinnamon from my cheek with a touch so careful it makes my throat tighten. His hand lingers for just a moment, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone, and through the bond I feel something warm. Tentative. Almost like wonder.
Then he pulls away, stepping back quickly.
"The wassail," he says, voice rougher than before. "Should be stirred."
"Right. The wassail." I turn back to the pot, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. "Definitely needs stirring."
He moves back to a safer distance, but I can feel him watching me. Can feel the thread of the bond between us, stronger than it was this morning. Not the domination Grandmother maintained. Something else. Something choosing.
I stir the wassail, adding another small thread of magic. *Warmth. Comfort. The courage to reach out. The safety to be reached for.*
"Iris?"
"Yeah?"
"When you put intention into your magic. Into the food, the wassail. Can you feel it working?"
"Yes. It's like..." I search for the words. "Like planting seeds. You can feel them take root. Feel them wanting to grow."
"And you put that into everything you make?"
"Most things. When I remember to. When I have the energy." I glance at him. "Why?"
"Because I can taste it." He's leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, but his posture is relaxed.
"Every meal. Every cup of tea. Every time you cook something and insist I try it.
I can taste your magic. Your intention. It's..." He pauses, searching for words.
"I'd forgotten that food could taste like caring. "
Oh.
"That's the whole point," I say softly. "Food should always taste like caring."
"Not in my experience."
"Then your experience has been sadly lacking.
" I turn back to the pot, adjusting the heat.
"I'm going to fix that. Fair warning though, I'm going to cook elaborate meals for no reason, and you're going to eat them and taste every bit of caring I put into them, and you're going to have to deal with it. "
"That sounds terrible."
But he's smiling. Actually smiling. Not the ghost of amusement or the hint of a curve. A real smile that transforms his entire face, making him look younger, lighter, almost human.
"There it is," I say without thinking.
"What?"
"Your smile. I was starting to think it was a myth."
"I don't smile."
"You are literally smiling right now."
"This is not a smile. This is a brief facial anomaly."
"A facial anomaly. Right." I grin at him. "Well, your facial anomaly is very nice. You should have more of them."
"Unlikely."
"We'll see about that."
He shakes his head, but the smile doesn't quite fade. We stand there in the kitchen, wassail simmering, cinnamon still scattered across every surface, and something settles between us. Something warm and easy and almost like friendship.
Through the bond, I feel his surprise at his own laughter. His confusion at how comfortable this is becoming. And underneath it all, something golden and tentative that might, eventually, be happiness.
"You should teach me," he says suddenly.
"Teach you what?"
"To cook. Properly. Not just chopping vegetables with precision." He straights up slightly. "If I'm to help with the Midwinter feast, I should understand more than knife work."
"You want to learn to cook?"
"I want to..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I want to do things that aren't violence. Things that create instead of destroy. If you're willing to teach me."
The request lodges somewhere in my chest, warm and aching.
"Of course I'll teach you." I wipe my hands on my apron. "Fair warning: my teaching style is mostly 'try it and see what happens' with occasional panic when things catch fire."
"Things catch fire often?"
"Define often."
"Iris."
"Only sometimes! And usually for good reasons!" I laugh at his expression. "I promise to minimize the fire risk. Mostly. We'll start simple. Bread, maybe. Everyone should know how to make bread."
"Bread," he repeats, like it's a foreign concept.
"Yes. Simple ingredients, simple magic, very hard to catastrophically mess up. It'll be perfect."
"If you say so."
"I do say so. And you'll be great at it. You're already great at the precision part, you just need to learn the chaos part."
"The chaos part," he echoes.
"The intuition. The feeling. The knowing when something needs more salt just by looking at it." I stir the wassail again, checking the consistency. "That's the real magic. Not the spells or the power. Just... paying attention. Caring enough to notice what something needs."
He's quiet for a long moment, watching me work.
"She never taught me that," he says finally. "Elspeth. She taught me to obey, to fight, to serve. But never to... notice. To care."
"Then I'll teach you now." I meet his eyes across the kitchen. "If you want to learn."
"I do." He says it simply, without hesitation. "I want to learn everything you're willing to teach."
The wassail bubbles gently on the stove. Outside, winter wind whispers against the windows. Inside, the kitchen is warm and bright and smells like spices and possibility.
"Then we'll start tomorrow," I promise. "Bread first. Then we'll work our way up to the really dangerous stuff."
"Dangerous stuff?"
"Souffles. Souffles are very dangerous."
"I've faced armies. I think I can handle baked goods."
"You say that now." I grin at him. "Just wait until you meet a temperamental souffle. You'll be begging to go back to simple warfare."
He laughs then, actual laughter, rusty and surprised and absolutely genuine. The sound fills the kitchen, and I watch his face transform again, that smile blooming into something bright and real.
Through the bond, I feel his shock at the sound. Like he'd forgotten he could laugh. Like he'd forgotten laughter was even possible.
"See?" I say softly. "Not so hard."
"What?"
"Being happy. It suits you."
He sobers slightly, but the warmth doesn't leave his expression. "I'm beginning to remember what it feels like."
"Good. Then my evil plan is working."
"Evil plan?"
"To make you enjoy things. To remind you that you're allowed to want things. To teach you that life can be more than just duty." I turn off the heat under the wassail, letting it cool. "Very evil. Extremely nefarious."
"The most nefarious plan I've encountered in centuries," he agrees, and there's something in his voice that makes my chest feel too full.
We stand there in the kitchen, the first batch of wassail cooling between us, cinnamon in my hair and warmth in the air and something new building in the space we share.
The revelation that he can be happy and I want to be the one who makes it happen