Chapter 55: THE JITTERS

Vael didn’t sleep.

It started three nights before the wedding — he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about — everything. The vows (unwritten). The suit (green). The guest list (one name at the bottom, coming). The —

"You’re thinking," Lyria said, in the dark.

"I’m not."

"You’re *thinking*. I can hear it."

"What does thinking sound like?"

"Like —" she paused, "— silence, but *loud*."

He turned to face her. "Can’t sleep."

"I know." She took his hand. "Talk to me."

"What if —" He stopped.

"What if what?"

"What if I —" He searched. "What if I’m bad at this?"

"At what?"

"At —" he gestured vaguely, encompassing marriage, forever, Tuesdays. "At *this*."

Lyria was quiet for a moment. Then: "You’re bad at vows. You’re bad at suits. You’re —" she counted, "— bad at *not* fidgeting during fittings."

"That’s not reassuring."

"I’m not done." She propped herself up. "You’re *good* at roast. You’re good at —" she thought, "— choosing. Every day. You choose this —" she gestured at the room, the inn, all of it, "— every day. That’s —" she lay back down, "— that’s the whole thing, Vael. The rest is —" she yawned, "— decoration."

He lay there — thinking, loudly — until she fell asleep.

Then he got up. Went downstairs. Started making roast.

At 3am.

---

Morrigan found him at 3:30 — doing rounds, the way she did.

"MY— MANAGER." She took in the scene: Vael, flour-dusted, elbow-deep in roast prep, at half past three in the morning. "ARE YOU —"

"Jitters," Vael said.

"AH." She nodded — like this was a recognized military condition. "PRE-BATTLE NERVES."

"It’s a wedding, not a battle."

"THE PRINCIPLES ARE THE SAME." She tied on an apron. "WHAT ARE WE MAKING?"

"We?"

"YOU’RE NOT SUFFERING ALONE." She picked up a knife. "THAT’S —" she chopped, "— *REGULATION*."

By 4am, Seraphina had joined them — drawn by the noise, or the smell, or the historian’s instinct for moments.

"Jitters," Vael explained.

"Ah." She pulled up a stool. "The —" she opened her notebook, "— the *pre-wedding* jitters. Historically —" she flipped pages, "— 94% of grooms experience them. The other 6% are —" she read, "— ’liars or unconscious.’"

"I’m in the 94%."

"Good company." She watched him work. "Can I —" she paused, "— can I tell you something? Not for the record. For —" she gestured vaguely, "— *you*."

"Always."

"I was —" she closed the notebook, "— I was scared. When I first came here. A historian, among —" she smiled, "— *legends*. I thought: I don’t belong. I’m just —" she searched, "— *writing it down*."

"You’re not *just* anything," Vael said.

"I know. Now." She opened the notebook again — but didn’t write. "The point is —" she looked at him, "— the jitters mean you *care*. The 6% — the liars — they don’t feel it because they’re not —" she paused, "— *in* it. You are. You’re *in* it." She stood. "That’s — that’s all. For you. Not the record."

She left. Vael looked at Morrigan.

"She’s right," Morrigan said, chopping. "THE JITTERS ARE —" chop, "— *DATA*. THEY MEAN THE MISSION MATTERS."

"The mission," Vael repeated.

"THE *MARRIAGE*." She corrected herself. "THE MARRIAGE MATTERS."

---

Corvina found out about the jitters at breakfast — the 6am roast-breakfast, which had become (instantly, permanently) a family legend.

"Jitters," she said, accepting a plate. "Hm."

"You’ve seen them before?" Vael asked.

"Forty bachelor parties." She ate. "The grooms —" she chewed, "— they’re always scared. The smart ones." She pointed with her fork. "The stupid ones aren’t scared. They’re *stupid*."

"I’m smart-scared, then."

"You’re *ready*-scared." She took another bite. "There’s a difference. I’ve seen both." She looked at him — really looked. "The ready-scared ones —" she paused, "— they make it. The stupid ones —" she shrugged, "— sometimes. But the ready ones —" she tapped the table, "— *always*."

Vael looked at her — this undefeated duelist, eating roast at dawn, dispensing wisdom.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don’t thank me." She stood — breakfast done. "I have a sword to polish. For —" she gestured vaguely, "— *aesthetics*."

"Aesthetics," Vael repeated.

"One sword," she reminded him. "The short one."

"One sword," he agreed. "The short one."

---

The module presented its wedding-day checklist at noon.

Vael was at the counter — finally awake, mostly — when the crystal DINGed, with unusual formality:

[WEDDING-DAY CHECKLIST — presented for review.]

[Item 1: Suit. (Green. Acquired.)]

[Item 2: Ring. (Gold. Acquired. Currently on Lyria’s finger. Will be moved during ceremony. The module has diagrams.)]

[Item 3: Vows. (Status: unwritten/overwritten. The module notes: this is acceptable.)]

[Item 4: Ring bearer. (Toma. Trained. Adequate.)]

[Item 5: Honor guard. (Military. Ceremonial. Both.)]

[Item 6: Cake. (Number seven. Plum. From the tree.)]

[Item 7: Doves. (Status: NONE. The module has learned.)]

[Item 8: Edran. (Coming. Don’t make it weird.)]

[Item 9: The host. (Scared. Together. Ready.)]

[Item 10: The bride. (Glowing. Per Madame Odette.)]

[The module notes: all items checked.]

[The module notes: the list is complete.]

[The module wishes to note: it has never completed a list this important.]

[The module is —]

[A pause.]

[— proud.]

Vael stared at the crystal for a long moment.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

[You are welcome.]

"For —" he paused, "— everything. The DINGing. The —" he gestured vaguely, "— the *invested*."

[The module was only doing its job.]

"Your job was —" Vael thought, "— optional. All of it. You didn’t have to —"

[The module wanted to.]

Vael didn’t know what to say to that. So he said: "Three days."

[Three days.]

"Will you —" he paused, "— will you DING? At the wedding?"

[The module will DING.]

"Good." Vael smiled — tired, happy, ready-scared. "DING loud."

[The module will DING *loudly*.]

---

By 5am, the kitchen was full.

Halric — drawn by the smell. Pell — drawn by Halric. Toma — drawn by the promise of "quality control."

"Jitters," Vael explained, for the fourth time.

"Ah," Halric said. "The —" he poured himself ale (at 5am; no one objected), "— the *fear*."

"I’m not afraid."

"You’re *terrified*." Halric sat. "It’s fine. I was terrified." He drank. "The trick is —" he leaned forward, "— be terrified *together*. That’s —" he gestured with the cup, "— that’s the secret. Not *not* being scared. Being scared *together*."

Vael looked at him — this divorced man, drinking ale at dawn, giving the best advice of his life.

"Thank you," Vael said quietly.

"Don’t thank me." Halric stood. "Now. What are we making?"

"Roast."

"Of course it’s roast." Halric tied on an apron. "It’s always roast."

Toma — perched on a stool, "supervising" — spoke up. "Are you scared, Vael?"

Vael paused — hands in dough, flour everywhere.

"Yes," he said. Honestly. "A little."

"Oh." Toma thought. "Is it the vows?"

"It’s —" Vael searched, "— everything. The vows. The —" he gestured vaguely, "— *forever*."

"Forever’s big," Toma agreed.

"It’s very big."

"But —" Toma swung his legs, "— you’ve already done the hard part."

"What’s the hard part?"

"Choosing." Toma said it simply. "You already chose. Every day. For three years." He hopped down. "The wedding’s just —" he searched, "— *saying it out loud*."

Vael stared at him. Then — slowly — smiled.

"When did you get so smart?" he asked.

"I’m ten," Toma said, like it was obvious. "Ten-year-olds are the smartest." He took a piece of dough. "For quality control."

---

Lyria found them at 6am — the whole kitchen, flour-dusted, roast in the oven, ale at dawn.

She took in the scene. Looked at Vael.

"Jitters?" she said.

"Jitters," he confirmed.

She crossed the kitchen — kissed him, flour and all — and said: "Good."

"Good?"

"Good." She took his hand. "It means you care." She looked at the assembled family — Morrigan, Seraphina, Halric, Pell, Toma. "It means *we* care." She smiled — the smile that ended wars. "Now. Who’s making breakfast?"

"I am," Vael said.

"You are," she agreed. "And then —" she checked the calendar on the wall, "— three days. Three days, and —"

"And forever," Vael said.

"And forever." She kissed him again — quick, flour-dusted, perfect. "Now feed me. I’m starving."

He fed her. He fed all of them — roast at dawn, the jitters baked out like dough rising.

And when the sun came up — over the plum tree, over the yard, over the inn — Vael stood in the doorway, Lyria’s hand in his, and thought:

*Scared. Together.*

*That’s the secret. That’s the whole thing.*

Behind the counter, the crystal DINGed — soft, in the morning light:

[The module has logged: jitters. 3am. Kitchen. Full.]

[The module notes: the host is scared.]

[The module notes: the host is scared *together*.]

[The module notes: this is the correct way to be scared.]

[The module wishes to note: it is also scared. A little.]

[The module is beige. Beige is brave.]

[Three days. The module is ready.]

[The module has been ready for three years.]

Vael held Lyria’s hand — flour-dusted, ring shining — and watched the sun rise over the plum tree.

Three days. Then the vows — unwritten and overwritten, true things waiting to be said.

He was scared. They were scared. Together.

And that, he was learning, was the bravest thing of all.