In the last stretch of winter, Thomasin’s normal routine was simple, but honest work. Today she awoke early, while the sun still slept, and blinked her twinkling, mousey eyes. She stumbled from her bedding of assorted pillows and patchwork quilts, shaking off the bit of cold that had crept into her home during the night. After stacking wood in the beehive shaped fireplace, she would light it, eager to melt the chill, then make herself a cup of tea. As it brewed, she would visit the altar in the back of the cottage, where a small statue of Caligo’s likeness stood, surrounded by various valuables: an assortment of thrifted teacups, delicate heirloom jewelry, and an ornate plate where she would share her offerings. Her worship would be uninterrupted.
She would enjoy breakfast by herself and await the first rays of daylight, then step outside to maintain her gardens. She would ensure all perennials were still hibernating peacefully in their winterization, check her compost pile, and then gather some more wood from the shed in the back to be used throughout the day.
When afternoon rolled in, Thomasin would move on to trying to tidy her house. The mare would dust the lace-lattice curtains, prepare a potpourri of cinnamon and thyme, and try to sweep away the flour from the kitchen floors – only for it to become even messier as she decided she craved warm bread. The dusty lamb would then begin to do the only thing she thought she did best, and bake bread. After chores and the warm smells mingled in her home, she’d make time to get another cup of tea -ginger was her flavor for the day – and lost herself within the pages of a well-loved book.
In the midst of her reading, she grew lonely and melancholy, but her sadness would soon give way to a sleepy pout and she’d curl back up into her throws and nap: content and cozy.
It wasn’t until a knock on her door that the dryad would lift her head, still bewitched from her slumber, and move to the door. Perhaps it was her father coming to pay her a visit – she wishes he would have at least tried to come earlier so that she would have had time to make him a meal. With a yawn and a cat-like stretch, she takes a peek out the peep-hole to double check it was him.
It was not her father at the door, but a cloaked figure. For a fleeting second, her heart dropped at the idea of a stranger coming to her door – a shadow of a predator coming to steal away her life. Yet, as the hood fell from this creature’s head, Thomasin’s heart still struggled to find its cadence. Wild curls spilled around their porcelain face, and tender pink eyes would meet her own, each of her lashes a perfect arc to frame her intoxicating stare.
Valan.
Thomasin felt herself grow nauseous with anticipation, a sudden panic trickling into her body as she whipped her head around and looked at the haphazardous state of her abode. She winced at the flour still on the floor, and the way her wood walls looked so plain and ancient, the cobweb that hung in the corner of the living room with the house spider that she was too scared to shoo away. The brick accents in the kitchen were showing wear and pale in color, and somewhere you could hear the drip of something leaking.
At least the house smelled good.
But she had also forgotten about how she looked. “Just a minute!” She called out as she pirouetted, scrambling swiftly to tie her hair back into a mess of a braid, attempting to appear put together and important. She cursed quietly, rubbing the drool stain from her jaw, fluffing the flowers in her ribcage and staging them to hide her heart, praying for more time but alas she knew she couldn’t keep her friend waiting.
She would unlock the behemoth oak door, and with a whistling creek, the light from inside would spill onto Valan, illuminating all those features Thomasin had grown to admire.
Why does she have to be so beautiful? It almost felt like mockery at this point: the face that was carved from the moon, the way her hair moved like fire around her long neck and slender shoulders.
As if the sight of her alone could steal her breath, Thomasin whispered gently “Valan.” Her eyes were rimmed slightly with a fond wetness. “I didn’t think you’d ever come.”
The lamb stretched her head forward to take a closer look at the flower that seemed to move with it’s wearer, astonishment peppering her face before she shook her head and stepped aside. “Please come in, should I draw the curtains for you?” She spoke, her voice hurried as a glance was thrown at the sunset bleeding into the sky, remembering that Valan could not be exposed for long.
“I wasn’t expecting company. I am so sorry for the mess – “she mumbled; if Thomasin had hands, they’d be rubbing the back of her neck, ashamed that such a regal lady was in her dwelling – a mound no better in her mind than a mud and stick fort you might build with your childhood friends.
She would await Valan’s instructions for the curtains by lighting a few candles, and then motion for her to make herself comfy. As soon as she would be settled, Thomasin would eagerly sit across from her, a little wiggle of her hips a tell-tale sign of her delight, impatient to learn about her friend’s rose petal companion.
"talking."
tagged: @Valan
