Page 14 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach

SOREYA

T he days that follow settle into a rhythm I hadn't expected—something softer than the raw survival I've been managing since Korrun's death.

Daegan moves through our small house with the kind of quiet assurance that speaks to years spent navigating cramped ship quarters where every step matters.

He never crowds my space or assumes authority over routines I've built, but his presence fills the empty corners in ways I'm only now beginning to understand.

"Hand me that pot," I say without thinking, nodding toward the heavy cast iron vessel that holds our evening stew. My arms ache from carrying Taran most of the day, and the simple request slips out before I can second-guess it.

Daegan lifts it easily, those rope-scarred forearms flexing as he moves the pot from counter to table. No commentary about my inability to manage it myself, no suggestion that I should have asked sooner. Just smooth competence that makes the task disappear.

These small moments accumulate like drops of water wearing smooth stone.

When Taran fusses during his afternoon feeding, I find myself passing him to Daegan without the internal debate that used to accompany such decisions.

Those broad, sea-weathered hands cradle my son with surprising gentleness, and the baby settles almost immediately against his uncle's chest.

"He likes the deep voice," I observe, watching Taran's eyelids grow heavy as Daegan hums some half-remembered sailing song.

"All babies do. Something about the vibration through the ribcage—felt it myself when I was small enough for Korrun to carry me.

" His smile carries warmth without the sharp edge of grief that such memories usually bring.

"Course, I was never as calm as this one.

Drove our parents to distraction with my squalling. "

The image makes me laugh—this composed, self-assured man as a demanding infant, wearing out adults with his protests. "I can't picture you as difficult."

"You didn't know me then. I had opinions about everything and no filter for expressing them." His eyes crinkle with amusement. "Still do, just with better timing now."

These conversations weave themselves into the fabric of our days, punctuating the practical business of maintaining a household and caring for an infant.

I learn that Daegan judges the weather by the way his old injuries ache, that he categorizes port cities by the quality of their bread, that he's never owned anything he couldn't carry in a single sea chest.

Mirath's visits become weekly affairs rather than daily check-ins, a change she announces with characteristic bluntness.

"You don't need me hovering anymore," she says, gathering her healing supplies into her worn leather satchel. "Between Daegan and your own stubborn competence, you're managing just fine."

The observation stings slightly, carrying implications of abandonment that my grief-raw emotions want to nurture into full resentment.

But watching Mirath's satisfied expression as she surveys our small kitchen—noting the well-stocked pantry, the clean surfaces, the general air of domestic stability—I realize she's not pulling away out of indifference.

She's stepping back because I no longer need constant supervision to function.

"Besides," she adds with a grin that transforms her serious features, "I've got other patients who actually require my expertise. You two have figured out how to take care of each other."

After she leaves, I find myself processing her words in the quiet space between Taran's feeding and sleep.

Take care of each other. Not just Daegan helping me, or me providing him with family connection, but something more reciprocal.

Something that acknowledges the way his shoulders relax when I laugh at his stories, or how my breathing evens out when I hear him moving through the house in the morning.

The grief still comes in waves, sudden and devastating as winter storms. Yesterday, folding Korrun's shirts that I finally felt strong enough to reclaim from storage, the familiar scent of his skin caught me completely off-guard.

The sob that tore from my throat felt like it might crack my ribs, and I fled to the bedroom to muffle the sound against a pillow.

When I emerged twenty minutes later, red-eyed and shaky, Daegan was positioned at the kitchen table where I couldn't miss seeing him.

Not lurking outside the bedroom door like he was eavesdropping, not pretending he hadn't heard my breakdown, just..

. there. Available without being intrusive, present without demanding explanation or performance of recovery.

"Tea?" he offered, nodding toward the steaming cup he'd placed at my usual spot.

The simple normalcy of it steadied me more than any words of comfort could have.

He'd heard my pain, acknowledged it by preparing something to ease my throat, then given me the dignity of processing it privately.

No hovering, no anxious questions about whether I was all right.

Just patient acceptance that grief moves through its own cycles and can't be managed away.

These moments of understanding accumulate like small treasures, reshaping my perception of the man who shares my daily life.

Where Korrun approached emotional storms with the desire to fix them—bringing me practical solutions and determined optimism—Daegan offers something more like a harbor.

Safe harbor where I can weather whatever comes without judgment or pressure to be anything other than exactly what I am in this moment.

The differences between the brothers reveal themselves in hundreds of small ways.

Korrun would have already reorganized my spice collection by frequency of use and alphabetical order, convinced that efficiency would somehow make cooking easier.

Daegan leaves my haphazard system intact but quietly memorizes where I keep everything, so when I'm juggling Taran and trying to season soup one-handed, he can pass me exactly what I need without being asked.

When Taran has particularly restless nights, Korrun would have approached the problem with research—asking other parents for advice, consulting whatever texts he could find about infant sleep patterns, developing systematic approaches to test until we found the solution.

Daegan simply takes the baby and walks him through the house, humming those half-remembered sailing songs until tiny fists uncurl and breathing evens out into sleep.

Neither approach is wrong, but the contrast highlights something I'm only beginning to understand about my own needs.

Korrun's determined care gave me security and stability, the deep comfort of being loved by someone who would move mountains to ensure my happiness.

Daegan's presence offers something different—the trust that I'm strong enough to weather my own storms, with the quiet assurance that I don't have to weather them alone.

"Being on land is harder than I expected," he admits one evening, steam from his tea curling between us as we sit at the kitchen table. Taran sleeps peacefully in his basket nearby, finally settled after a fussy day that tested both our patience.

"How so?" I ask, genuinely curious about this perspective I've never considered.

His fingers trace the handle of his cup, and I notice how the lamplight catches the silver hoop in his ear.

"On a ship, every decision affects survival.

You learn to read weather, watch for reefs, manage supplies because your life depends on getting it right.

But here..." He pauses, searching for words.

"The consequences feel bigger somehow. More personal. "

The admission surprises me with its vulnerability.

This is the same man who negotiated market prices with casual expertise this morning, who moves through domestic challenges with unshakeable competence.

But something about permanent residence, about caring for people rather than cargo, unsettles his confidence in ways that ocean storms never could.

"I'm glad you came back," I tell him, the words carrying more weight than I intended. "Not just for Taran, but... I was terrified to be a mother. Especially alone. I thought I'd fail at everything—feeding him wrong, holding him wrong, somehow damaging him just by not knowing enough."

Daegan's sea-green eyes meet mine across the table, steady and serious. "And now?"

"Now I think maybe that fear was keeping me from seeing what I actually could do.

" I glance toward Taran's peaceful form, still amazed that this perfect creature grew inside my body and emerged healthy despite all my worried incompetence.

"I'm still scared, but it's different. Less about failing him and more about.

.. wanting to be the mother he deserves. "

"You already are," Daegan says simply, and something in his tone makes my chest warm. Not the effusive praise that tries to convince, but the quiet certainty of someone who's watched me navigate these weeks and drawn his own conclusions.

The conversation flows easier after that, touching on small observations and shared experiences that build understanding between us.

I tell him about the way Taran's expressions sometimes mirror Korrun's so perfectly it takes my breath away, and he shares stories about the letters Korrun sent during my pregnancy—how my brother-in-law's writing transformed when he talked about becoming a father, practical concerns giving way to wonder at the miracle of new life.

"He was planning to teach Taran to swim in the cove behind the house," Daegan mentions, his voice soft with memory. "Said he wanted him to be comfortable in water from the beginning, like we were as children."

The image forms easily in my mind—Korrun's patient hands supporting a small body in gentle waves, his deep voice offering encouragement as tiny limbs learned to move through water.

It should hurt, this glimpse of futures that will never happen, but somehow it doesn't. Instead, it feels like a gift, another piece of the life Korrun imagined for us that I can carry forward.

"Will you teach him?" I ask before I can think better of it.

Daegan's smile spreads slowly, transforming his features with genuine pleasure. "I'd like that. When he's old enough, I mean. No sense rushing him into deep water before he's ready."

The promise settles between us, another thread in the web of connection that's been growing stronger each day. This is what family looks like now—not the life I planned with Korrun, but something new built from love and loss and the quiet decision to care for each other through whatever comes.