Cadeon
She has begun leavingtea outside my door. The house is warded against UV rays so I’ve moved from the basement upstairs to the functional room I would use when the basement would get too cold over the winters.
I discover it the first time by accident, nearly stepping on the cup in the pre-dawn darkness as I returned from patrol. It sits on a small tray, steam still rising faintly, alongside a note in her cramped handwriting: “In case you need it.”
I stand there for longer than I should, staring at this small, incomprehensible kindness.
Masters do not leave tea for their familiars. They summon. They command. They do not offer comfort in the dark hours when nightmares cling like cobwebs.
I should leave it. The gesture is unnecessary. Vampires do not require sustenance in this way. But I can’t.
I pick up the cup. Drink it slowly. The herbs are calming, but I can’t name them like she can. Her magic hums through it, gentle and persistent. *Peace. Rest.*
The note, I keep.
By the fifth morning, I find myself appearing in the kitchen doorway before she calls. Not because I must. Because I... choose to.
The thought is still strange. Foreign.
"Good morning," she says without looking up from whatever she is preparing. Her hair is in a braid, her work apron already dusted with flour. The kitchen smells of bread and cinnamon.
"Good morning." The words feel rusty in my mouth. How long since I have exchanged pleasantries? Decades? Centuries? How long since I chose to seek out a master in the light of day.
"I'm making porridge," she continues, measuring oats with the same chaotic precision she brings to everything. "Do you want some?"
"I don't need..."
"But you can taste it. So why shouldn't you?"
I have no answer that will not sound like the automatic denial it is. So I sit at the table and watch her work.
She moves through the kitchen like she is dancing with invisible partners: reaching for spices, stirring, tasting, adjusting. Nothing about her movements is efficient. Everything about them is... alive. Present. Like she is having a conversation with the food itself.
Her magic seeps into everything she touches. I can feel it even from here: warmth and comfort and care poured into something as simple as morning porridge.
When she sets the bowl before me, I taste it carefully. Honey and cinnamon and that peculiar warmth that is distinctly hers. It settles in my chest in a way I cannot name.
"Good?" she asks, watching me with those bright eyes.
"Yes." The word comes easier than it should. "Thank you."
Her smile could light the room better than any fire.
The days acquire a shape I did not know I needed.
Morning: her cooking, me watching. The comfortable silence of two people learning to exist in the same space.
Afternoon: research, ward maintenance from inside, the necessary work of keeping this estate functional that has been my task for two centuries.
Evening: dinner. Always dinner, elaborate and unnecessary and entirely for my benefit, though she pretends otherwise. Though I don’t require it.
Night: patrol. When the sun sets, I check the boundaries, walk the perimeter, ensure everything is secure. Old habits, perhaps. But also... necessary stillness after a day of her bright, chaotic presence.
"You don't have to do this," I tell her, watching her prepare something that smells of wine and spices.
"I know." She doesn't look up from her work. "I want to."
Want. Such a small word. Such an impossible concept.
