I R O N
ZELTROS
Continued from Tiny Umbrellas...
For Aether, saying her name felt as natural as breathing. The syllables left his tongue with a calm familiarity that he could have easily blamed on shared hardship, on the memory of the two of them quite literally holding back a storm together. None of his warriors had stood with him in that way, not his kin, not his oldest comrades. If anyone pressed him on it, he would point to that...or to his Basilisk's preference and the fight for agrocite when the Diarchy marched on Eol Sha.
The truth ran deeper than that, and he did not have words for it. Every time he strayed too close, his own mind bared its fangs, promising to devour him if he stepped wrong. Do something foolish, it growled, and see what happens.
So when she called his being civilized debatable, he seized the easier ground. The Mand'alor lifted both hands in a broad, mock victory, palms open as if he had just claimed some grand prize.
“A win is a win.” he said, the humor in his voice smooth and unforced.
The brightening in her eyes did not escape him. It was a small shift, subtle as the easing of a tightened strap, but some long held tension in his shoulders loosened in response. It felt like his body had been holding an invisible breath and only now decided it was safe to let it out.
Her sigh about lozenges and heroic medic duty only deepened the smile that had already settled across his features. He dipped his head in a theatrical bow over the low table, cloak shifting at his back as if he stood on some palace dais.
“I am nothing if not a gracious king,” Aether declared, tone playfully grand. “May Zeltros enjoy its surplus of lozenges, at least until the winter comes. Who knows what sniffles await me then.”
The quiet chuckle that followed chased the last of the stiffness from his posture.
Then came her laugh when he named himself her Padawan in the noble Order of Tea Knights. Not a polite exhale or a contained little smile, but something melodic and unguarded that filled the small shop with warmth. He watched it happen, felt something in his chest answer it, and when that tiny, ridiculous phrase slipped out of her, he knew he would keep it.
“Oh-ee-no-ee...” Aether repeated, tasting the sounds like a rare spice.
The deep laughter that rolled out of him in the next instant was impossible to disguise. It rose from his chest in a booming peal that turned a few heads in nearby booths before settling into a softer rumble. The expression was absurd, yes, but it was also, in his private estimation, entirely and undeniably...cute, and that realization only fueled his amusement.
When the laughter finally faded, she threatened to introduce him as her apprentice, warned him about Mandalorian gossip, painted a picture of their Mand'alor demoted to scrubbing poultice pots. Aether pressed his palm flat against the center of his breastplate as if taking an oath, his grin bright and easy.
“Well, do not be surprised when you are suddenly ruler of the Empire,” he replied. “If you are mighty enough to tame me so thoroughly that I am scrubbing poultice pots, they will place a crown on your head by the next business day.”
The jest carried no distance from the fondness that underpinned it, and the bemused smirk that lingered on his mouth made it very clear that he liked the story he was spinning.
The host returned in a gentle swirl of motion, then retreated, leaving kettle, leaves, and cups arranged like ritual implements between them. When Persephone reached for the kettle, Aether found his focus sharpening without conscious effort. He leaned forward just enough to show his attention, forearms resting on the table, helm at his waist forgotten.
Until this moment, his approach to tea had been blunt and entirely functional. Boil water, drown a teabag, hurl in enough sugar and honey to turn it into medicine instead of a drink, then suffer through until the fever broke. Watching her work was something else entirely. Every motion had intention behind it. The angle of her wrist. The timing of the steep. The careful choice of additions. He did not know the forms, but he recognized mastery when he saw it.
He listened while she spoke of lesson one and lesson two, of good tea having no need to fight for its place on the tongue, of preferences not being sins to hide. He nodded slowly, then gave those lessons back to her in his own words as she finished pouring his cup.
“So if it is good tea, it stands on its own merit.” he said, voice low, reverent to the simplicity. “If it needs rescuing with half the pantry, it is not worth the sip. And if I have preferences, I am allowed to have them.”
He lifted the cup with both hands, honoring the moment more than the object, and brought it to his lips. The first sip was careful, testing, then his brows rose a fraction as the flavor unfolded across his tongue. Lemon, lavender, warmth that soothed without smothering. It was not the desperate brew of a sickbed. It was something crafted to be enjoyed.
“Oh wow...” Aether murmured, before setting the cup gently back upon its platter.
His gaze found her again, steadier now, unhurried.
“I can only imagine our usual lines of work are not the best places to treat tea with this kind of respect.” he said. “So how do you manage a decent cup in the field. I am assuming your method is a little more refined than nuking a mug of water and throwing a teabag in.”
The question carried genuine curiosity, but also something softer. An invitation. To talk about routines that did not revolve around triage and battle plans. To share a piece of herself that existed outside the roar of alarms.
There was so much beyond these walls that demanded his attention, so many wars waiting to be born or reborn. For the length of a kettle’s life and the span of a shared pot, he chose to set it aside. In this small, candle lit corner of Zeltros, he let himself be only a man learning how to drink tea properly from someone he trusted, and for now, that was more than enough.
