It's that time of year again.
A couple days after what happened, I'm trying reset for my parents coming over.
I'm sweating from the oven's heat. Despite the cold seeping through the walls, it wasn't enough to keep me cool, but the food is nearly finished.
"Can you taste this?" I ask.
Kaelith reaches for the nearest dessert—a simple cream puff. He takes a bit of the filling, testing its firmness.
"Seems fine to me." he says.
"As long as you say it's good enough, that's fine by me."
I smirk and begin lining up the silverware and dishes beside him. "I never knew you had such a lack of cooking knowledge."
Cooking with him is like cooking with a toddler. He doesn't know what anything is—but I can't deny how quick he is, or how useful those muscles are when things need lifting.
"Never needed to cook," he says. "It's not a necessary skill."
"Good food is always necessary," I reply. "Imagine how boring life would be without flavor."
He chuckles. When I place the last dish down, he steps closer—far too close. He tilts his head, studying me.
"What?" I ask.
"I wonder what flavor you would have."
My eyes widen. "Um—uh—"
The door opens.
My father coughs loudly, announcing their presence.
"Are we interrupting something?" he asks.
"Nope. Nothing at all," I say quickly, darting to him and grabbing his jacket.
Kaelith freezes for half a heartbeat, clearly stunned by how fast I fled, then moves to take my mother's coat. As he does, he extends a hand.
"Hello. Pleasure to meet you. I'm Kaelith."
My mother smiles warmly and takes it. "Pleasure. I'm Nyra's mother. She's told me everything about you."
"I certainly hope not," he says, smiling—but it's stiff. Forced.
My father shakes his hand next. "It's good to see you again, son."
"Likewise."
We hang their coats on the rack and guide them to the table, where supper is laid out. Once seated, my parents and I join hands. I hesitate, then extend my hand toward Kaelith.
He looks confused for a moment—but takes it.
Together, my parents and I say, "Thank you for the meal and the hands that prepared it."
We let go.
He chuckles. "Something wrong, son?"
"No," Kaelith replies. "I just understand where Nyra gets that from."
He smirks, and we begin to eat.
"Is this a tradition here?" he asks.
"Of course," I say. "Food is hard to come by in winter. We're fortunate—others aren't. Rations get tough at this time of year."
Mainly because the rich must keep up appearances, I think to myself.
My father clears his throat. "You know, Kaelith… Nyra explained why she likes you. But I don't know why you like her."
I shoot him a look. So does Kaelith.
"Easy, easy," my father says. "No ill intent. Just an old man wondering. It's not like we talked much the last time we met."
Wait.
I blink. "You've met?"
Kaelith nods. "I was wondering about your history—how he found you."
"As you know, Nyra," my father says, "there's not much to tell."
They found me years ago in a shipping crate—surrounded by warped tools, covered in blood. They never knew if it was mine until they dressed me. I had no wounds.
"But still," my father says, "care to answer, son?"
Kaelith pauses, searching for words. "She reminds me of someone very dear to me. All the good that person brought into my life—I see the same in Nyra. My hope is simply to stay by her side and help her."
That answer surprises even me.
"And who was this person?" my father asks.
Kaelith pales slightly. "It doesn't matter, Father. We all have someone like that."
My father studies him but lets it go.
After dinner, we gather upstairs by the fireplace. Gifts are set out.
"Another tradition?" Kaelith asks.
"The god of fertility teaches us to share our love—and our crops," my mother replies.
I roll my eyes. They've always been religious. I never could believe in a god like that.
"Seems excessive," Kaelith mutters.
"It's okay if you don't believe," my mother says. "Gifts remind us we care."
"Mom, I'd care regardless."
"I know, sweetheart."
She hands me a new apron and oven mitts. "You ruin them every year."
I disagree—but smile anyway.
From my father, I receive advanced mathematics books. I thank him sincerely. Knowledge helps people.
I give them my gifts in return: a warm scarf for my father, and a new rolling pin for my mother—the old one practically screamed when used.
Then Kaelith steps forward.
He hands me my gift first.
Inside is a dagger, sheathed in black. Strange runes mark the handle:
ᛏᚨᛏᛁᚨᚾᚨ
ᛞᚱᚨᚡᛂᚾᚺᚨᚱᛏ
"Go on," he says. "Draw it."
I do.
The blade gleams a purple hue, while the base is grey. More runes run along its length:
ᛂᚡᛂᛚᛁᚾᚨ ᚨᚢᚱᛂᛚᛁᚨᚾᛂ on one side of the blade.
ᚨᛚᛞᚱᛁᚲ ᚨᚢᚱᛂᛚᛁᚨᚾᛂ on the other side of the blade.
"It's beautiful," I whisper. "What do the runes say?"
"That's a secret," he replies. "One you'll uncover in time."
"I don't recognize the language," my father says.
"It's a code," Kaelith explains. "Used only in my profession."
My father looks like he wants to say more—but doesn't.
I hand Kaelith his gift next.
His eyes light up. "I wasn't expecting anything."
"You give gifts but don't expect them?" I tease.
He opens it—black leather gloves with red accents, flexible enough for movement and warm enough to keep him warm.
"These are excellent," he says, smiling genuinely.
Later, after we spend the evening talking together my parents leave and the house grows quiet, Kaelith pauses at the door.
"One more thing," he says, handing me a book. "Not for company."
I open it.