Chapter 43: The Thought Behind The Gift

Valdor had barely closed Amor’s bedroom door behind him when Vervath’s voice carried through the wood.

"We should discuss grandchildren."

A muffled impact followed immediately.

Valdor stopped in the corridor with the empty meal tray balanced across one palm. The object thrown sounded soft enough to be a pillow, though the outraged noise that followed might have belonged to either Amor or Lanslet. Valdor considered which one would reprimand his father first. After another burst of overlapping voices, he concluded that both had accepted the responsibility.

Vervath would survive. Probably.

Valdor continued down the corridor. The faint curve near his mouth remained for several steps, warmed by the image of Amor’s flushed face disappearing behind his fan and the hand he had placed against his own chest in silent farewell. Then the humor loosened its hold, leaving behind a reality too large to remain hidden beneath teasing.

He was going to court Amor. Formally and openly. The words repeated through his mind with every descending step.

Amor had said yes.

Not because an alliance required it, not because their fathers arranged it, and not because Valdor’s strength had removed every other possibility. Amor had listened, asked questions, imposed conditions, and chosen to permit the courtship while entirely awake. The consent felt heavier than any oath Valdor had taken before elders. A thousand ideas followed.

Flowers, jewelry and meals in the capital. Carriage rides through places kingdom nobles considered romantic.

Valdor imagined offering Amor another carved stone, finding rare northern cloth, arranging musicians beneath his window, or asking Master Edric to create something even more elaborate than the court clothing. Each idea appeared briefly, glittered with possibility, and then felt wrong.

Not because Amor would dislike those things. Amor loved beauty, sweets, fine clothing, admiration, and anything arranged with enough care to make him feel considered. He had responded warmly to the moonstone clasp, the confectionery, and the chance to select Valdor’s new garments. Courtship did not require rejecting his tastes merely because they belonged to the kingdom. Yet Valdor could feel himself building the gestures from comparison.

’What would the duke have offered?’

’What would Amor’s former lovers have planned?’

’What did noble suitors consider impressive enough to prove serious intention?’

The questions tightened his chest.

’Ah-I am doing it again.’

Valdor slowed near the lower landing. He had only just admitted the insecurity inside Amor’s room, and already his mind returned to measuring himself against kingdom men. The discovery that his Aunt Samara was queen had relieved part of the pressure, but it had not removed the habit beneath it. Royal proximity had given him language nobles respected; it had not taught his heart to stop asking whether someone else might court Amor more elegantly.

’Would that ever change?’

Valdor frowned. Confidence did not require blindness. He knew his weaknesses as clearly as his strengths. He could not dance with noble refinement, understood little of court poetry, and would likely insult several people while learning the hidden meanings behind formal gifts. Pretending otherwise would turn pride into foolishness.

Still, recognizing skill gaps differed from treating himself as lesser. Valdor knew how to learn. He knew how to observe. More importantly, he knew Amor.

Not fully, not yet but enough to understand that the grandest gesture would mean little if it ignored what Amor actually needed. Valdor remembered Vervath’s advice.

"Learn him."

"Know when his smile lies."

"Give what only you could give."

His father had spoken wisely before spending the next several hours humiliating everyone around him. Valdor would need to ask him more eventually, though the thought of another vulnerable conversation made tension gather between his shoulders. The last request for courtship guidance had resulted in childhood stories, laughter, and enough knowing looks to make fleeing seem reasonable. Now Valdor possessed a new problem.

He had permission.

That was more frightening than uncertainty. Vervath would be unbearable. Valdor would endure it.

Courtship mattered more than pride, especially if old doubts threatened to shape his choices again. He would ask his father how insecurity changed after Sarka agreed to be courted, whether Vervath had continued comparing himself to other warriors, and how a person learned to trust that being chosen was not temporary. His father might laugh first. He would answer afterward.

Valdor reached the bottom of the stairs. A servant approached from the opposite corridor carrying folded linens and nearly collided with him. The young man stopped abruptly, eyes moving from Valdor’s face to the empty tray before bowing. Valdor held the dishes toward him.

"Take this."

The servant adjusted the linens quickly and accepted the tray with both hands.

"Yes, my lord."

Valdor released it. Then he turned. The servant remained where he stood. Valdor had already begun walking toward the glass doors opening into the rear gardens before the young man understood that no further explanation would come. He looked down at the empty plates, then toward the enormous guest disappearing into the afternoon sunlight. Confusion settled across his face.

Valdor did not notice. A new idea had formed. Amor was grounded for one week.

He could not leave the estate, ride into the capital, visit shops, attend performances, or walk through gardens without assistance. Under other circumstances, the restriction might have seemed inconvenient for courtship. Kingdom men appeared to rely heavily upon outings, public displays, expensive venues, and opportunities to be seen offering pleasure. Valdor found himself relieved.

The grounding removed spectacle. He did not need to impress Amor through places someone else built. He would show up. Every day. Consistency rather than heroism seemed to fit more in line with what Valdor thought was a good courtship.

The thought felt right.

Valdor crossed beneath the stone arch leading into the gardens. Late-afternoon light spread across carefully maintained paths, herb beds, flowering hedges, and ornamental trees trimmed into graceful shapes that would never survive a northern winter. Gardeners worked at a distance, moving among the beds with baskets and small tools. Several looked up when Valdor passed.

He nodded once. They bowed automatically, though curiosity followed him.

Valdor’s route carried him beyond the decorative gardens toward the practical grounds hidden behind them. House Moons maintained extensive kitchens, greenhouses, livestock pens, orchards, smokehouses, and storage buildings capable of supplying the estate through winter without relying entirely upon capital markets. Amor’s wealth expressed itself through beauty in the front gardens and preparation behind them.

Valdor approved of the latter. A successful courtship began with food. Amor had spent extraordinary energy speaking, eating, and defending himself even while confined to a chair and bed. Doctor Haverin had warned that the body required nourishment to repair the ankle, recover from stress, and restore warmth after the episode at court. The kitchen could provide anything.

Valdor wanted to prepare it himself. Not because the Moons cooks lacked skill. Their meals were excellent.

But food made by servants would not teach Amor anything about Valdor’s intentions beyond the fact that he could request a tray. Hunting, preparing, seasoning, and feeding someone belonged to Blackstone care. A person placed effort into nourishment because saying I want you strong enough to remain mattered more when carried through hands.

Tonight, Valdor would cook dinner. Something warm, nutritional and easy upon an exhausted body. He began assembling possibilities.

Chicken broth enriched with root vegetables and grain. Roasted meat flavored with mountain herbs from his medical pouch. Soft bread brushed with honey. Perhaps a berry reduction if the kitchens still possessed the moonberry fruit Amor liked so much.

Valdor would need to speak with Doctor Haverin before seasoning anything heavily. The physician might object to too much fat, sugar, salt, or whatever else kingdom medicine had decided injured nobles could not enjoy. Valdor knew enough healing to argue if necessary but did not intend to disregard advice simply because it came from a man who tolerated Vervath poorly.

The livestock pens appeared beyond a line of pear trees. Chickens moved within a broad fenced enclosure, pecking at the earth around low wooden shelters while two stable hands repaired a section of wire near the gate. Valdor approached with direct purpose. The nearest worker noticed him and straightened.

"My lord?"

"I need a chicken."

The stable hand looked toward the flock.

"For the kitchens?"

"Yes."

"Would you like me to have one prepared?"

"No."

Valdor opened the gate. The stable hand watched him enter. A second worker lowered his hammer.

The chickens scattered briefly around Valdor’s boots, then resumed pecking once he moved without aggression. He observed them, evaluating size, weight, feather condition, and movement. The largest bird would not necessarily make the best meal; older chickens produced richer broth but tougher meat, while younger birds roasted more tenderly.

’Amor needs both nourishment and comfort.’

Valdor selected a healthy bird large enough to serve several people without becoming stringy. He crouched slowly, waited until it moved near, and caught it in one quick motion. The chicken protested loudly beneath his arm. The stable hands stared. Valdor looked toward them.

"Where may I prepare it?"

The first man pointed toward a small work shed beyond the pen.

"There is a slaughtering table behind the west smokehouse, my lord."

Valdor nodded. He carried the chicken away. The workers remained silent until he moved beyond easy hearing. Then one whispered.

"Is he cooking?"

The other looked toward the manor windows.

"For Lord Amor, likely."

"How do you know?"

"He took the healthiest bird."

The first worker considered this. Then both looked toward the chicken with newfound romantic significance.

...

Valdor continued toward the smokehouse. The practical rhythm of preparation settled his thoughts.

Courtship did not need to resemble noble courtship. It did not need to resemble his dad’s either.

His father had won Sarka through flower-carved knives, persistent hunting companionship, shared labor, and an extraordinary willingness to endure being threatened with his own gifts. That bond suited them. Amor required something different.

Valdor could learn the kingdom customs because Amor valued them. He could offer flowers, outings, and jewels without pretending they were the only meaningful gestures available. He could also bring dinner, adjust pillows, repair inconvenient furniture, and ensure the bedchamber remained warm enough for sleep. Courtship could be built from both worlds.

That balance eased him. He reached the preparation area behind the smokehouse.

A stone worktable stood beneath a slanted roof, supplied with clean water, hooks, knives, basins, and a drainage channel. Valdor dispatched the chicken quickly, without unnecessary suffering. He hung it properly before beginning to pluck the feathers. The repetitive work allowed his mind to continue.

One week. Seven days of Amor confined primarily to his room. Valdor could bring meals, keep him company, teach him simple Blackstone games that did not require standing and—should he work up the courge—ask about kingdom courtship rituals Amor actually enjoyed rather than guessing.

’Perhaps Amor likes music.’

’Perhaps he wants someone to brush his hair.’

Valdor’s hand paused upon the feathers. The image arrived uninvited.

Amor seated before a mirror in a loose robe, lavender hair falling over his back while Valdor worked a comb through it with the same care used to untangle bowstrings. The intimacy of the imagined scene tightened something warm beneath his ribs. He resumed plucking before the thought distracted him completely.

’I could make the ankle support better.’

The current pillows lifted Amor’s foot, but they shifted whenever he moved. Doctor Haverin repeatedly adjusted them, suggesting the arrangement was adequate rather than ideal. A carved wooden rest with a padded channel could hold the ankle steady without pressing the heel.

Valdor visualized the construction. A low support. Wide enough not to tip. Curved braces to prevent side movement. Removable padding for washing. An angle gentle enough to elevate without straining the knee.

He would need sturdy wood capable of being carved smoothly, preferably ash, oak, or another type resistant to splintering. House Moons likely kept lumber near the maintenance sheds. If not, a fallen branch from one of the estate trees might suffice.

Valdor finished plucking the chicken and examined the skin. Clean and with no tears. He began dressing the bird. The work remained familiar, hands moving through cuts and separations with practiced precision. Nothing useful would be wasted. The feet and neck could enrich broth, the organs could be prepared separately, and excess fat could be rendered for cooking or storage.

’Amor values that.’

Valdor remembered the quiet intensity in his face during their discussion about wasted food. The reaction carried history deeper than ordinary frugality, though Amor had not explained it. Valdor did not need the full truth to respect the instinct. He would use everything.

The decision felt like courtship too. Not a dramatic declaration but a promise enacted through scraps not discarded. Valdor rinsed the prepared bird and placed it in a clean basin.

A kitchen assistant appeared around the corner, likely sent after reports spread that the Blackstone guest had seized a chicken. She stopped upon seeing the neatly prepared carcass and Valdor washing the tools. Surprise crossed her face.

"Lord Valdor..."

He looked toward her.

"Because the head chef, Mirren, is out sick Cook Brenna will be the one to handle the meals until further notice. She asked whether you required assistance."

"I need herbs, root vegetables, grain, and kitchen access."

The assistant blinked.

"For... tonight’s dinner?"

"Yes."

"Is this going to be for your dinner tonight?"

"Amor’s."

Understanding illuminated her expression.

"Oh! Of course..."

She hurried forward and took the basin only after Valdor permitted it.

"Shall I tell Cook Brenna what you intend?"

"I will tell her."

The assistant smiled despite attempting professional neutrality.

"She will be pleased."

Valdor doubted that. Head cooks often disliked large warriors entering their kitchens and rearranging established meal plans. He had encountered that resistance before. Usually it ended once they tasted the result or realized he cleaned every surface afterward. He wiped his hands.

"Where is lumber stored?"

The assistant looked from the chicken to him.

"Ah? I’m sorry, did you say... lumber?"

"Yes."

"For... the meal you are cooking?"

"No..."

That answer did not help her confusion. Valdor continued.

"I am building an ankle support."

"Oh my! For Lord Amor? I had heard his ankle is in poor shape."

"Yes."

The assistant’s expression changed again. This time the warmth became impossible to hide.

"The maintenance yard is beyond the south greenhouse..."

She said.

"Mister Harrow oversees the timber stores."

Valdor nodded.

"I will go there after the kitchen."

She lifted the basin.

"I can have the ingredients gathered while you speak with Cook Brenna."

"Do that."

The assistant hurried away. Valdor followed at a slower pace. The estate’s service paths connected the practical grounds efficiently, allowing supplies to move between kitchens, gardens, smokehouses, and storage rooms without crossing the decorative front lawns. Valdor approved of the design. Amor had grown within extraordinary wealth, but the estate itself was not uselessly arranged.

He wondered how much Amor understood of its operations. Likely more than nobles assumed. The young man had recognized gem quality, trade value, food preservation, and the social weight of every merchant interaction. He might appear ornamental while understanding precisely how each ornament became profitable. Valdor wanted to learn that side of him too.

This week, while courting, could include questions. Not interrogations necessarily, but easy conversationally questions.

What responsibilities would Amor inherit from Lanslet?

What part of House Moons did he enjoy managing?

What did he fear losing?

What kind of future would allow him freedom without abandoning the family he clearly loved?

Valdor could not ask for marriage answers during their first week. He knew that much. Vervath might disagree. Lanslet would agree violently.

Formal courtship meant learning whether their lives could fit before desire turned possibility into assumption. The north and House Moons stood far apart, geographically and culturally. Love alone would not shorten roads, settle inheritance, or answer where winters and summers should be spent. Valdor found the more practical questions comforting. They made courtship something built rather than merely felt.

He entered the kitchens through the service door. Warmth and noise surrounded him at once. Copper pots hung above wide preparation tables, ovens glowed along the stone wall, and servants moved between stations carrying vegetables, bread dough, sauces, and trays meant for the household’s evening meal. Several conversations paused when he appeared.

Cook Brenna stood near the central hearth. She was a broad woman in her fifties with iron-gray hair, powerful forearms, and the expression of someone who had ruled this kitchen long before any Blackstone visitor arrived. Her gaze moved toward the prepared chicken entering behind him. Then toward Valdor.

"You took one of my birds there, big man."

"It belonged to the estate."

"It belonged to my dinner plan; therefore, it belonged to me. Haha, well what’s done is done. No use fussing over it, I suppose."

"I will replace the meal..."

Her brows rose. Several assistants became very interested in chopping onions. Valdor approached the main table.

"Doctor Haverin said Amor needs warm food, protein, vegetables, and grain."

Cook Brenna folded her arms.

"Doctor Haverin gave me the same instructions. But that’s not why you’re here or why you stole my chicken, is it?"

"I will prepare them."

"Now listen here, Muscles, this is my kitchen. That makes me the lord here while Mirren, bless her, recovers. Which means I make the rules. "

"Yes."

The acknowledgment deprived her of the argument she expected. She studied him.

"Hmm... You cook, Braids?"

"Yes."

"Mm... you cook well?"

"Yes."

An assistant coughed to disguise laughter. Cook Brenna glanced toward the young woman, then returned to Valdor.

"What do you intend?"

He explained. Chicken broth made from the bones and neck, enriched with carrots, parsnips, onion, and barley. Roasted meat rubbed with herbs and a small amount of rendered fat, accompanied by softened root vegetables and bread. A honey-berry glaze could provide sweetness without overwhelming the meal. Cook Brenna listened. Her resistance faded reluctantly.

"Heh, well, I’ll be a draken’s wife, Furs. That would suit the physician’s instructions perfectly."

"Yes."

"Now hold on, Black Marks. Before I let you even touch a knife, we gotta lay down some ground rules. Just safety precautions so we know if the lords keel over dead, our hands are clean. You will not use unknown tribal herbs without identifying them to us first."

"I will show you each one."

"Mhm, and you will not frighten my staff, Pecs."

Valdor looked around. Several assistants immediately lowered their eyes.

"I will try."

The answer sounded familiar. Cook Brenna almost smiled.

"Well, that was rule one and two. We’re squared away, Jawline McGee. You may use the smaller hearth over there."

Valdor nodded.

"Oh! And an added rule: can’t believe I almost forgot! You will clean it and your station."

"Yes."

"Properly, Big Hands, with a clean rag and water from the well. Add soap but not too much."

"Yes."

"You will not gut another poultry in my kitchen, right? One lost chicken is enough; I don’t want the coyotes and wild dogs to be competing with you over our losses, Glarey."

"It is already prepared."

She looked toward the basin. Her expression admitted approval before her mouth did.

"Mhm, and very cleanly. Nice, you put a lot of care into it, Mr. Take First, Ask Later."

Valdor removed his medical pouch. He placed several dried herbs upon the table one by one, explaining their flavor, common use, and medicinal properties. Cook Brenna crushed each between her fingers, smelled them, and rejected only one for being too bitter during recovery. Valdor accepted the correction. The collaboration began.

Servants brought vegetables, grain, stock pots, knives, and fresh bread dough. Valdor separated the chicken carefully, placing bones and tougher parts into the broth pot while preserving the tender cuts for roasting. He worked without wasting motion.

The kitchen slowly resumed its normal rhythm around him. Whispers continued, but Valdor ignored them. His mind remained upon Amor.

’Would Amor consider a meal enough for the first evening of courtship?’

The thought returned, but he recognized its shape now. He was making comparisons. He let it pass. The meal did not need to be enough by anyone else’s standard. It needed to be honest. Valdor could not compress every intention into one dinner, one gift, or one week.

Consistency meant returning tomorrow. And the day after.

He stirred the broth. Steam rose around his face, carrying the scent of herbs, roasted bone, and onion. The aroma reminded him of winter lodges, younger siblings crowded around tables, and his mother, Sarka, tasting stew before declaring it needed more salt. Food had always made care visible in his family. Amor would understand.

Perhaps not as Blackstone courtship immediately. But as Valdor. A footman entered the kitchen carrying a message.

"Lord Valdor, Lord Lanslet requests to know where you have gone."

Valdor looked toward the simmering pot.

"Tell him the kitchen."

The footman hesitated.

"He also requested that I ensure you were not arranging another unauthorized departure with Lord Amor."

"I am cooking."

The footman looked around.

"Yes, right you are, my lord."

Valdor returned to the broth. The messenger did not leave.

"Was there more?"

"He asked whether High Chieftain Vervath was with you."

"No."

The footman’s relief suggested Vervath’s location represented an urgent household concern.

"Thank you."

He departed quickly. Valdor almost wondered what his father had done. Then he remembered the word grandchildren and decided not to investigate yet. The broth needed time.

Valdor covered the pot, placed the chicken portions near the roasting hearth, and washed his hands. Cook Brenna watched him move toward the door.

"Oh? You are leaving already, Tall, Dark and Handsome? I thought you’d at least stick around long enough to make dessert too for a certain sweet-loving noble."

"I need wood."

Her eyes narrowed.

"The food—"

"I will return before the broth boils too hard."

"Haha! Really can’t do two things at once even with all that strength of yours, huh? Don’t sweat it, kiddo; I have staff capable of watching a single pot and still prep for dinner."

"Yes."

The answer unexpectedly pleased her.

Valdor crossed back into the garden paths. The sunlight had lowered further, casting long shadows across the greenhouses. He walked toward the maintenance yard while visualizing the ankle support. The device needed to be useful enough that Amor would not dismiss it as excessive and comfortable enough that Doctor Haverin approved. He would carve small moon patterns along the sides. Valdor reconsidered.

’Too decorative?’

’Amor liked beauty.’

’Perhaps moon shapes would show thought without interfering with function. A small purple flower could be carved beneath one edge where only Amor would notice. Something connecting House Moons to Blackstone.’

The idea settled warmly. Courtship did not require choosing between usefulness and beauty. Amor embodied both after all. The maintenance yard stood beyond the greenhouse, surrounded by timber racks, toolsheds, stone blocks, and repair carts. Mister Harrow, a narrow older man with one missing fingertip, looked up from measuring a beam as Valdor approached.

"Ah! Lord Valdor, I’ve been expecting you."

"I need wood."

"Haha, so I heard."

Information moved quickly through House Moons. Harrow gestured toward the racks.

"What are you making?"

"An ankle support."

"Oh, for the young master? I had heard he had taken quite the fall in the alley. I’m glad he is well and alive, but poor thing is stuck in bed."

"Yes."

The carpenter’s expression softened.

"Then you will want ash. Strong, lighter than oak, and smooth under a blade."

He led Valdor toward a covered rack. Several seasoned boards rested there, protected from moisture and sorted by grain. Valdor examined them, rejecting knots, warping, and small cracks until he found one wide enough for the base. A narrower piece would serve for the side braces. Harrow watched the selection.

"I see you also know your way around wood."

"Yes."

"Hey, need any tools? I’ve got extras so you can use them."

Valdor carried his own knife, but the support required more than carving.

"Saw, drill, rasp, clamps."

The carpenter nodded. He opened the workshop. Inside, tools hung in exact rows above heavy benches worn smooth by years of labor. Valdor placed the boards down and sketched the shape directly upon the wood with charcoal. Harrow leaned over his shoulder.

"That angle will lift the foot—"

"Yes."

"But the heel may press here."

Valdor adjusted the curve.

"Mm, Better, well done."

The carpenter said. They worked together briefly, discussing joinery, padding, and how the support might be dismantled for cleaning. Harrow suggested a removable wooden pin rather than fixed nails. Valdor improved the idea by widening the base enough to remain stable if Amor shifted in sleep. The collaboration felt easy. No noble comparison entered it. Skill recognized skill.

Valdor sawed the first pieces while the carpenter prepared the drill. Wood dust gathered across his forearms, clinging to the Blackstone markings and leather wraps. The familiar scent of fresh-cut timber eased him.

This was courtship. Not because carving furniture was inherently romantic. Because Amor’s ankle hurt and Valdor could reduce that pain. The simplicity steadied him. By the time the basic frame had been cut, a kitchen boy appeared at the workshop door.

"Lord Valdor, Cook Brenna says the broth needs you."

Valdor checked the sun. More time had passed than expected. He looked toward Harrow.

"May I return after dinner?"

"The wood will be here for you whenever you need it. In fact, take it with you inside when you get the chance. Wouldn’t want you cooped up back here with an old man like me when you could be smitten with our young and bedridden lord, haha!"

Valdor gathered the smaller carving tools and selected a smooth offcut for decorative work later.

"Do not finish it."

The carpenter looked offended.

"It is your courtship gift, not mine, young man. I wouldn’t dare get in the way of young love!"

Valdor stared. Harrow’s expression remained perfectly serious. Then one corner of his scarred mouth lifted. Valdor nodded and left.

The news had spread. He did not know whether to blame the maids, Vervath, or the entire household’s ability to interpret every action within minutes. Likely all three.

---

He returned to the kitchen. The broth had developed a deep golden color. Cook Brenna stood beside it, pretending she had not been monitoring the heat personally. Valdor tasted, adjusted the herbs, and began roasting the chicken. The first courtship dinner came together gradually. Nothing extravagant, purchased or copied. It was quiet simply when it came down to it, just warm broth, tender meat, and soft vegetables. There was some freshly made bread. A small berry-honey sweet prepared from the remaining fruit glaze and scraps of dough, because Amor would finish vegetables more willingly if dessert waited afterward.

Valdor looked at the meal and felt the last of the earlier uncertainty loosen. He could still learn noble customs. He would ask Amor which traditions mattered and which existed only because people feared appearing unfashionable. He would invite him on outings once the grounding ended, bring flowers, wear tailored clothing when appropriate, and navigate courtship pieces carefully enough not to imply promises Amor had not made.

But he would not begin by pretending to be someone else. He would begin with what he knew. He knew food, hard work, attention and to return always to his side.

Valdor covered the finished broth and checked the roasting meat. Then he looked toward the piece of ash wood resting beside the kitchen door, already shaped enough to reveal the support it would become. Tonight, after Amor ate, Valdor could sit nearby and carve while the young noble read, complained about grounding, or attempted to distract him. Tomorrow, the ankle would rest upon something made specifically for him. The thought felt better than any grand public gesture.

For the week that Amor remind contained in bed, Valdor had already begun preparing to court him within the limits of Amor’s room. Not with a palace, carriage, or duel.

With a chicken, a plank of wood, and the determination to show Amor—again and again—that Valdor’s care would remain after excitement ended.