Chapter 8 Cadeon
Cadeon
"We're decorating."
I look up from “The History of House Ashwood” I've been pretending to read.
In truth, I've been watching her move around the library for the past hour, cataloging books with the same chaotic enthusiasm she brings to everything else.
She's wearing an old work dress, her hair escaping its braid, and she has ink on her cheek from where she touched her face while writing.
She's beautiful.
The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome, and entirely accurate.
"Decorating," I repeat, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Yes. For Midwinter. With evergreens and candles and probably some enchanted nonsense that will inevitably go wrong." She's already pulling on her warmest coat, which is patched at the elbows and smells faintly of lavender. "Grandmother never decorated, which means we absolutely must."
"That logic is questionable."
"That logic is perfect. Come on." She rushes out of the room and returns to hold out my coat like I'm a child who needs help dressing. "We need to gather boughs from the forest."
"It's snowing."
"It's winter. It's always snowing here."
"The temperature is dropping rapidly. There's a storm coming."
"Which is why we're wearing coats." She shakes the coat at me with the determined expression that means she's made up her mind and logic will not sway her. "Are you coming or do I have to go alone and inevitably get lost because my sense of direction is terrible?"
The threat of her going alone decides it. I close the book and stand, taking the coat from her hands.
"You're going to insist on this regardless of weather conditions."
"I am."
"Even though it's impractical and potentially dangerous."
"Yep."
"You're impossible."
"Thank you." She grins at me, bright and unrepentant. "I'll take that as a compliment."
I should argue further. Should explain all the tactical reasons why going into the forest during a snowstorm is inadvisable.
Should point out that decoration is frivolous when we have more pressing concerns: the feast, the bond-weakening, the fact that I haven't fed in four days and am starting to feel the edge of hunger.
Instead, I pull on my coat and follow her out the door.
Because apparently, I'm incapable of denying her anything.
The forest is quiet in the way that precedes heavy snow.
Iris walks ahead of me, her breath misting in the cold air, chattering about the specific types of evergreens we need. "Pine for protection, obviously. Cedar for purification. Holly for... I forget what holly is for, but it's pretty, so that's enough."
"Holly represents eternal life," I hear myself say. "The red berries symbolize blood and sacrifice. It was used in old winter rituals."
She turns to look at me, eyes bright. "See? You know things. Useful, non-violent things."
"I know many things. Most of them involve optimal methods for killing."
"And you also know about holly. " She reaches up to touch a low-hanging pine branch, snow cascading down onto her hair. "How far do we need to go for good boughs?"
"Not far. There's a grove about a quarter mile ahead where the trees are dense. Better quality."
We walk in comfortable silence, and I find myself watching her instead of scanning for threats.
The way she pauses to examine interesting frost patterns on bark.
The way she hums under her breath, some tune I half-remember from centuries ago.
The way she moves through the forest without fear, like she belongs here.
She doesn't belong here. This forest has teeth. But she doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps she simply doesn't care.
"There," I point ahead to where a cluster of pines stands thick with boughs. "Those will work."
"Perfect!" She hurries forward, and I follow, hyperaware of the way the wind is picking up. The storm is moving faster than I anticipated.
We should be quick.
We are not quick.
Iris approaches evergreen gathering with the same chaotic intensity she brings to cooking. She wants the perfect branches. The ones with the best needle coverage, the most aesthetic shape, the exact right shade of green.
"This one?" She holds up a branch.
"It's adequate."
"Just adequate? We can do better than adequate." She drops it and reaches for another. "What about this one?"
"Also adequate."
"Cadeon, you're not helping."
"I'm preventing you from taking every branch in the forest. That is helping."
She makes a face at me, and I feel something warm flicker through the bond: amusement, affection, the golden feeling I'm learning to associate with her happiness.
The snow is falling harder now. Faster. The wind is already biting.
"Iris. We need to go. Now."
"Just one more." She reaches for a high branch, stretching on her toes. "I want something for the mantle."
The wind howls, sudden and vicious. Snow whips around us in a blinding white wall.
I'm beside her in an instant, pulling her against me. "We're going back. Now."
"I can't... hmm... I can't see." Her voice is muffled by the wind and snow. "Which way is the cottage?"
"I know the way. Trust me." I pull her tight against my side, one arm around her shoulders. "Stay close. Don't let go."
"I won't." She's already shivering, and we've only been in this for moments. Her coat is not adequate for this. Nothing short of thick furs would be adequate for this.
I can barely see three feet ahead, but I don't need to see. I've walked these woods for two centuries. I know every tree, every path, every depression in the ground. And more than that, I can feel the cottage. The wards call to me, a magnetic pull, impossible to ignore.
And I can feel her through the bond. Her fear. Her cold. Her trust that I'll get us home safely.
I will. I have to.
"Stay with me," I tell her, half-carrying her through the snow. "We're close. Just stay with me."
She stumbles, her foot catching on something hidden beneath the snow. I catch her easily, lifting her into my arms without breaking stride.
"I can walk," she protests weakly.
"You're slowing down. Hypothermia affects judgment first." I adjust my grip, holding her tighter. "Let me carry you."
She doesn't argue further, just burrows against my chest, seeking warmth I'm not sure I can provide through our coats.
The walk takes forever and no time at all. I navigate by instinct and memory, feeling my way through the whiteout. The bond hums between us, growing stronger as we approach the cottage, like it's pulling me home.
Finally, finally, the dark shape of the cottage emerges from the snow.
"Almost there," I tell her, but her shivering has intensified into violent tremors. Her lips are blue. Her breathing is shallow.
Fuck. She's closer to hypothermia than I thought.
I kick the door open and carry her inside, snow cascading off both of us onto the floor. The cottage is cold, the fires have gone out, but it's shelter. It's home.
"C-cold," she manages through chattering teeth.
"I know. I'm going to fix it." I set her on her feet carefully, keeping one arm around her to hold her steady. "But I need to start the fire first. Can you stand for a moment?"
She nods, but she's swaying. Not good.
I move fast. The sitting room first: kindling, wood, flames bursting to life with barely a thought. Then the kitchen. The fire roars to life, but it will take time for the rooms to warm.
She doesn't have time.
When I return to her, she's sunk to the floor, still in her wet coat, shaking so hard I can hear her teeth rattling.
"Iris." I kneel beside her, cupping her face. Her skin is ice-cold. "I need you to listen to me. Your coat is wet. We need to get it off. Do you understand?"
She nods vaguely, but her fingers fumble uselessly at the buttons.
"Let me." I work the buttons efficiently, pulling the heavy wet coat off her shoulders. Her dress underneath is damp at the hem and shoulders. Not as bad as the coat, but not good enough.
I scoop her up and carry her to the sitting room, where the fire is already warming the air. I set her on the rug in front of the hearth.
"The dress needs to come off too," I tell her. "It's damp. You'll lose heat faster if you keep it on."
She looks at me with unfocused eyes. "C-Cadeon?"
"I'm here. I'm going to take care of you." I pull a thick blanket from the sofa. "Can you get the dress off yourself, or do you need help?"
"H-help." Her hands are shaking too badly to manage the fastenings.
Right. Of course.
I turn her carefully, working the zipper down her back with steady fingers. Professional. Clinical. This is medical necessity, nothing more.
The dress comes off, and she's left in a thin white slip that's mostly dry. Better. I wrap the blanket around her shoulders.
"Stay here. I'll get more blankets."
But when I start to stand, her hand catches my wrist. "D-don't go."
"I'm just getting..."
"Please." Her eyes are clearer now, focused on me with desperate intensity. "I'm so c-cold. Don't go."
I settle back down beside her. "I'm here. I'm not leaving."
"Still c-cold." She's pulled the blanket tight around herself, but she's still shivering violently. "Why am I still so c-cold?"
Because blankets alone aren't enough. She needs active warming, not passive insulation. No, she needs body heat.
"There's a way to warm you faster," I say carefully. "But it requires... close contact. Skin to skin. It's the most efficient method for warming your skin. It will take longer because I’m...cold...but it should still help."
She stares at me for a moment, processing. Then: "You m-mean..."
"I would hold you. My body temperature is warmer than yours right now. I've fed recently enough that I generate heat." I meet her eyes. "But I understand if that's too uncomfortable. We can wait for the fire to warm the room."
"No." She shakes her head. "I don't want to w-wait. I want..." She reaches for me with trembling hands. "Please. I'm so cold."
The please decides it.
I remove my shirt in one efficient motion, then settle on the rug with my back against the sofa. "Come here."