"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 hisface 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."
