Filed Under: Jack of Knives – The Aftermath Years
The knife moved faster than it needed to.
Precise. Rhythmic.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Not a single tear, even from the onion.
Jack wasn’t a chef.
He was an executor.
A silencer.
A man with blood under his nails and the self-awareness not to call himself heroic.
But the Queen had cried last night.
He’d heard it.
Even through the flap of the tent and the hiss of the wind.
He knew that particular kind of silence.
The kind you earn by not screaming.
So he made a casserole.
It was ridiculous, really.
A knife-man standing in a borrowed kitchen, sleeves rolled up, slicing carrots like they’d offended someone.
He didn’t follow a recipe.
He followed instinct.
Layered things that lasted.
Root vegetables. Heavy cream. Salt. A little thyme. (Because she liked that word.)
And something sharp underneath—just enough bite to say:
“I remember what he did. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgiven.”
He added cheese last. Topped it carefully.
Considered carving something into the top with the knife—
a symbol, a warning, a crown.
Didn’t.
Just slid it into the oven and watched it disappear into heat.
He was thinking she deserved something warm.
He was thinking maybe he'd kill the bastard anyway.
He was thinking: If I make this right, maybe she’ll eat. Maybe she’ll sleep.
Maybe I’ll stop seeing that look in her eyes.
The one that says I’m fine when she’s clearly not.
Maybe I’ll be the brother she needed this time.
Not the one who left.