Chapter Text
“You should not be out in this storm,” he says, mouth and ears drooping in a frown. The line that wrinkles his brow only serves to soften the reprimand for it twists his expression from upset to concern and you know he is not angry. It is hard to imagine him angry, with you anyway.
Though his tail does flick with some annoyance as you drop water across the many rugs that litter the floor of his tower. Thunder had cracked as you had stepped through the portal, bringing you and some of the downpour into the warm hearth and home of Mistria’s great protector.
Clothes hang heavy and sodden on your frame. A shiver runs down your spine and claws, neatly filed and placed just so against the small of your back, guide you to the fire pit in the center of his room. A towel and a cup of tea find their way into your hands before you even have the chance to speak. He takes a seat opposite you, his own cup pressed close to his chest, those same soft talons curled around his mug. They flex as he looks at you. From the other side of the fire he says, “Mortal bodies are fragile, you must take care of yours.”
Then, as if the fates had conspired against you, or maybe for you, you sneeze. Soft and gentle but enough for Caldarus to lean forward, to watch you through the heat and haze and steam. He frowns again and sips his tea. You mime at drinking the tea, the smell alone enough to tell you it will be bitter and over-steeped. He’s trying and that is worth the after taste, even if it requires some mental preparation on your part. Eventually, he asks after your farm, interested in what you are growing, and what you are not. You tell him of your crops and your animals, of your pet who collects twigs in its mouth to help with your chores.
He asks if you are lonely on your farm. You shrug and ask him about his day. He tells you of his scrolls and the things he does not remember. The day passes by and only when the wind outside dies down does he let the conversation fizzle out. Only when the last pattering drops of rain strike the paving stones outside does he stand and stretch, taking your mug from your hands. You have finished your tea, though it took a long time. He is pleased that your cup is empty.
“Thank you for visiting in such tempestuous weather,” he says, as though you would have, could have, made any other choice. The compulsion to see him that dogged your heels since you first found his statue has never left you. Day after day you find your way to him, no matter where you are or where he is. Though you often know where he is. Does he know where you are? You think of him everyday. Does he think of you?
“Do be careful returning home, the ground is still slick. I…” he pauses, swallows, looks at you and takes your hand, “I do not know what I would do if you were injured on my behalf” -and then even softer, whispering- “again.”
You leave him with a berry tart. For his next cup of tea, you tell him. He hums and watches you leave.