Page 26 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
The simple observation hits deeper than it should. When Korrun died, tending the trees felt like betraying his memory—how could I nurture something that would grow and flourish when he never would again? Letting them decline had been easier than facing the reminder of all the harvests we'd planned together, all the seasons we'd never share.
"He would've been furious," I say softly, remembering how protective Korrun had been of these trees. "Seeing them get so overgrown. He spent hours planning where each one should go, what varieties would do best in our soil."
"He'd also understand why you couldn't manage it alone," Daegan replies. "And he'd be proud seeing them healthy again."
Something warm uncurls in my chest at his words. Not absolution exactly, but permission to feel good about what we've accomplished without guilt overshadowing the achievement.
"Come on," he says, touching my elbow gently. "Fire's going, and you look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."
He's not wrong. Exhaustion weighs on my limbs like lead, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that comes from honest work and emotional release. But it's good exhaustion, earned rather than the heavy fatigue of grief that used to drag at me constantly.
Inside, Taran sleeps peacefully in his cradle beside the hearth, tiny chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm that never fails to calm my own breathing. At nearly three months, he's started sleeping for longer stretches, especially after days when we keep him outside where fresh air and gentle activity seem to settle him more completely than anything else.
I settle into my usual chair, pulling my legs up beneath me while Daegan adds another log to the fire. The flames catch and leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the walls andturning his brown fur to burnished gold where the light touches. He moves with that careful grace I've grown accustomed to, aware of his size but never awkward, every motion deliberate and controlled.
"Think we'll actually get decent fruit this season?" I ask, wrapping my hands around my kaffo cup for warmth.
"With your expertise and my impressive ability to follow directions?" He settles into the chair across from me, his own cup steaming in his large hands. "I'd say the odds are promising."
"Your impressive ability to only cut the branches I tell you to cut, you mean."
"Hey, I showed real restraint. Do you know how many perfectly innocent branches I wanted to remove just because they looked at me wrong?"
The absurdity of his mock-serious tone makes me laugh, the sound bubbling up bright and unexpected. "You wanted to prune based on personal vendettas against tree branches?"
"One of them was definitely plotting something. I could tell by the way it kept hitting me in the face every time I walked past."
"That's called 'growing in a natural pattern,' not 'plotting against tall minotaur.'"
"Seemed suspicious to me."
His grin is infectious, drawing my own smile wider until I'm laughing again, the kind of helpless giggles that feel like pressure releasing from somewhere deep in my chest. When did laughter become easy again? When did these moments of simple joy stop feeling like betrayal?
"You realize," I manage between breaths, "that you're going to have to learn to coexist peacefully with those branches? We can't prune every tree limb that offends your sensibilities."
"I suppose I could try diplomacy first. Maybe establish some kind of peace treaty."
"Very mature approach."
"I'm known for my diplomatic skills."
"Are you now?" I arch an eyebrow, remembering some of the stories he's told about his trading ventures. "Is that why you've been banned from three different ports?"
"Those were cultural misunderstandings."
"Cultural misunderstandings that ended with you being chased by harbor guards?"
"The details are less important than the principle of the thing."
His expression of wounded dignity is so exaggerated that I dissolve into fresh laughter, the sound echoing off the stone walls and seeming to wrap around us both like something tangible. Daegan's own chuckles join mine, deeper and richer, until we're caught in one of those feedback loops where each person's amusement feeds the other's.
But gradually, the laughter fades, leaving behind a silence that feels different from the comfortable quiet we've grown used to. Heavier. Charged with something I'm afraid to name.
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across Daegan's face. His sea-glass green eyes reflect the flames, and I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way firelight catches on the silver hoop in his ear. When did I start noticing these details? When did his presence become less about Korrun's brother and more about the man himself?
"Soreya." My name on his lips sounds different than usual, rougher somehow, like it caught on something in his throat.
I meet his gaze directly, and the air between us seems to shimmer with possibility. He's looking at me the way a man looks at a woman he wants, not the way someone looks at hisdead brother's widow. The intensity in his expression makes my pulse quicken, heat spreading through my chest in ways I haven't felt in almost ten months.
