Last night, I dreamt I was swimming in the ocean beneath the prow of the ship, when a hook caught deep in my back and dragged me out. I found myself in a cage in a room that was very dark except for the light of one flickering torch. The cage had a massive lock that I had nothing with which to break, and I felt myself falling into despair. Just then, a moth flew away from the embers of the torch and fluttered into my pocket, and when I reached in to let it out, my hand closed around my wooden key.
I used it to open the cage and stepped out into the dark, whereupon the moth flew out of my pocket and—glowing soft as a distant star—led me to a door. The door opened to a flight of stairs that led further into the ship, but I couldn't tell whether they went up or down. Still, I took them, if only to get out of that eerie room. I followed the moth in the dark, following this strange, twisting staircase until it let me out into a tower in a castle nestled in the snow. The moth then fluttered to my chest and turned into my moon seed pendant, resting cool as moonlight against my skin.
There at the centre of the tower, I found my lost ember, and I cradled it against myself for warmth against the bite of the wind. It guttered in my hands and glowed brighter when I approached the stairwell again, which seemed to be the only way out. This time, the stairs clearly went down, and so I followed them, and soon found myself in a massive, empty ballroom. The sweetest music was floating through the air, and my dream faded out into nothingness as I tried to follow it to the source.
I comb my hair at my vanity as I struggle to make sense of the dream, and then I consult my Oracle, which tells me the following three words: grasping, newborn, and churning. I wonder what it will bring while I make breakfast, and then I get dressed and head out into the forest.
Midway through the morning, I stumble upon an enormous creature nestled into its lair. I don't know how I didn't see it before I almost fell on top of it, but it hisses at me from deep in its throat, tail lashing as it nurses half a dozen whimpering whelps kneading at its belly. I do my best to back away from the mother as I keep my eyes on her without making eye contact, and when I'm far enough away that she stops hissing, I turn and march further into the forest.
The deeper I walk, the more I feel the sensation that I'm being watched. Every time I look over my shoulder, I can swear that I see a shadow shrink away from me. At times, I feel something tug at my cloak in ways that remind me of the fabric catching on nettles and brambles, but when I look down, I see nothing of the sort. At one point, something pulls at my satchel, and I grab it before it gets taken off of me, whirling around to see a pair of glowing white eyes in a shadow clinging to a tree.
"Now, now," I chide. "What is it that you want? Ask, and I might give it to you."
The spirit willows and sighs. "Pretty," they say, soft as a psalm.
"Thank you," I say, smiling my encouragement. "What is it that you want?"
"Apple," it whispers. "Sweet. Smell."
I reach into my satchel and pull out the apple I was planning on having along with my lunch. "This?"
"Yes," they breathe, detaching a hand from the tree to reach out and touch the apple with one wispy fingertip. "Please?"
"Of course," I reply, and I carefully hand the apple over to the spirit, making sure not to touch it directly.
"Thank you," they murmur, and I watch their eyes crease in an unseen smile before they disappear into the forest with their treat.
"You're welcome," I say into the nothing, shaking my head and turning around to continue on my way.
As I walk through the forest, I poke my head around trees and under bushes, searching for things I can forage to bring to my dinner table. All at once, I hear a great big roar from directly behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin, whirling around with my heart in my throat.
"Excuse me," says the creature who was behind me, smoothing one of their paws down their chest. "I was hoping to hear your thoughts."
"You could have asked me more nicely than that," I waspishly reply.
The creature blinks back at me in befuddlement. "But, then, how would I garner your honest opinion on my roar? I want to know if it's suitably frightening."
I roll my eyes. "Terrifying, yes, thank you for asking."
The creature grins—an impressive display of teeth. "Splendid!" they enthuse, and stretch out a pair of leathery wings. "I simply must tell my cohorts of this immediately. Have a wonderful day." Before I can respond, they take off and fly to parts unknown, leaving me to calm my poor heart by lonesome. I shake my head and continue on my way.
Eventually, I come across a tangle of mushrooms as big as my torso, petal-soft and in all sorts of lurid colours. At a glance, I know them to be poisonous, but I can't help but stray a little closer to admire them, crouching to find that they've grown on a big, ancient log that seems to have been split open from the inside. Their stems seem to writhe around one another, like so many grasping fingers holding fast to one another. It's romantic, in a way, even though I know they could kill me.
The sun begins to set, and so I make my way home. I wash up, make dinner, and get ready for bed. This time, I want to go back to that castle, so I focus on the image of that little moth that lead me through the dark, and I follow it into my dreams.
I live in a handsome cottage, situated in a forest made hazy by morning fog and damp with dew. There are fairy rings and the soft chirrup of frogs in the fish pond out back, and the garden is half-wild and well cared for. It's spacious inside, with two bedrooms and a large soaking tub in the bathroom; a squashy, helplessly comfortable sofa in front of a massive fireplace; and a kitchen big enough to be a veritable ballroom. The candles I make are always scented with roses, and my workbench is pockmarked with dribbles of wax.
My bedroom is my sanctuary. My linens are always soft and just the right temperature, and my pillows are always the perfect firmness to cradle my head. My bed is luxuriously cosy, and even the mosquito netting around the four posters gives it a soft, gauzy glow in the moonlight. In the drawer of my bedside table, I keep the gifts given to me by the people who love me: a moon seed wrapped in wire and strung on a pendant, for nights when the moon itself refuses to shine; a wooden key that can work any lock; and a lost ember to guide my way.
The first night after I move into the cottage, I dream I fly away to the sea to live on a great ship in the middle of the ocean, where its gentle rocking lulls me into a miasma of vivid dreams-within-dreams. When I wake, I can still taste salt on my tongue, and my shoulders ache with the loss of my wings. The ground beneath me feels too still; it leaves me unsettled.
When I check my Oracle, it gives me its usual number of words: stinging, chilling, and hiding. I ponder what they could mean as I make my morning tea, and then I get dressed and leave to spend the day outdoors.
A stone's throw from my garden wall, I find a tree I've never seen outside of texts about floriography: an autumn amacius, resplendent as a wildfire and shimmering with dew. I look up to admire it for a while, noting its pretty, smooth and waxy leaves and its riotous red and orange flowers. I resolve to leave it alone, though I make note of where it is so that I can admire it again later. A few minutes' walk from the amacius, I come across an ancient, weathered stump carved to look like a throne, with antlers at its crown and gnarled roots at its base. I don't dare sit on it for fear that its owner will come and scold me, but I admire that, too, before I wander further into the forest.
Eventually, I sit with my back to a grand, old tree to eat my lunch, gathering my cloak around me like a blanket. It's so cold today that my cheeks sting with every breeze, and I know that winter will bring a worse bite with it soon. Halfway through my sandwich, I hear the oddest little chatter from the branches above me, and when I look up, I see tiny faces peeking out at me from behind the golden leaves.
Little spirits, all in pale, glowing shades of blue and green, hiding behind the leaves above me. As I watch, I see that they're causing the tree to develop delicate hoar frost, the icy particles feathering away from them with every touch. They, then, are the source of today's unnatural chill. I try to smile up at them and say a soft hello, but they're so skittish that they duck behind the leaves and one another, huddling anxiously behind the frost.
I decide to sit very quietly and just make myself as nonthreatening as possible, and eventually, a handful of the antsy little spirits make their way down to inspect me. The bravest of them settle on my cloak and pet curiously at the thick, damp fabric, leaving patches of frost behind. I begin to hum and startle the lot of them, but they don't stay away for long.
Eventually, one of the little spirits speaks up in a soft, fluting voice, asking, "What song are you singing?"
"The Ballad of Nora Maisie," I gently reply, smiling down at the brave little creature.
"Oh," they say. "What's it about?"
I recount the tale of Nora Maisie, a princess who falls in love with a guttersnipe, and whose daring and tenacity convince her family that the man she loves is worthy of her hand in marriage. It isn't long before other spirits begin to pipe up, and we have a conversation late into the afternoon, until the little spirits tire and retreat to the branches above me to sleep. At that point, I pack up and begin to retrace my steps.
On my way back, I nearly trip over something walking near the forest floor, and I have to back up and excuse myself.
"Watch where you're goin'!" the creature creaks, holding a baby of its kind that is tugging none-too-gently at its long, russet fur.
"I'm very sorry," I say, and they cluck at me impatiently.
"Never apologise to a fae."
"I beg your pardon?" I blurt.
"Don't be doin' none o' that, neither," the creature tuts. "Never apologise to a fae. Don't say 'sorry' nor 'thank you'—them's bindin' words. Don't never give a fae a reason t' hold you in their debt."
I think for a moment before I reply, "That's very kind of you to warn me."
The creature only shakes their head, grumbling about 'clueless children' as they wander into the underbrush with their child. I take this encounter as a sign to head straight home for the day, except for a quick stop at the amacius tree to clip a few flowers and leaves. I take these to my workbench to probe with my magic, and I find that the flowers have powerful antimicrobial, antifungal, and anti-inflammatory properties, as well as being regenerative. The leaves, on the other hand, are powerful repellents for both insects and malice. What wonderful gifts from nature!
I decide to make a healing potion from the flowers, and a warding charm from the leaves. I affix the charm to the neck of my cloak, and I slip the healing potion into my cloak pocket, sure that it will come in handy out in the forest. After all of my work, I have a hearty dinner to celebrate the move, and then I pamper myself on my routine to bed. I spray my hair down with a mixture of saltwater infused with robin feathers, in the hopes that I can continue last night's dream.
Was approached while trying to warm myself by the fire. There was a deep, eerie noise beneath the howling of the winds, sonorous and unsettling like some sort of unholy choir chanting unintelligibly all around me. It got louder and louder until I noticed a bone-white creature approaching in the distance, large as a horse and—oddly—in the shape of something that resembled a snail from back home. It traversed the tundra on dozens of tuberous feet, locomoting like a millipede at a sedate pace.
As it approached, I saw that its shell—large and grey like a boulder—was full of holes bored all the way through, and the strange noise I was hearing was the sound of the freezing winds blowing through them and making an unearthly hum. Its face had feelers on either side like the whiskers of a cat, a modest mouth between them, and a veritable bouquet of eye stalks above them, each dark, marble-like eye blinking in and out of sync.
When it stopped, it stretched its neck out and seemed to bask in the warmth of the fire, closing most of its eyes and sighing cavernously. I offered a stick of cured meat and it reached out with its feelers to probe it, but it seemed utterly disinterested in the food. Will send a team member out to follow it once it decides to leave.
Catalogue
Designation: Hummer (FYND# 343-94)
Notes: A lonesome, mostly terrestrial creature. It only seems to have one natural predator, and when it finds itself in danger, it detaches from the ground and floats straight up into the air like a balloon, floating far out of reach from any tooth or claw that might draw it back down to earth. Incredibly docile and very curious. Able to be drawn in by the making of a simple magical fire, or the playing of music.
Was resting beneath a tree in the Rococo Mountains when a nut fell on my head. I looked up to see where it had come from and saw the strangest creature ambling around among the branches, all stocky limbs and an incredibly long, prehensile tail. As I watched, it lowered itself down onto the ground and ignored me quite completely, using its long, dexterous nose to sniff among the roots of the tree. Finding nothing of interest, it moved along the rocky path to the next tree further along the mountainside, where it used its deadly-looking claws to root around the ground at the base of the tree. There, it unearthed some sort of tuber, and ate it noisily as I followed at a safe distance.
It must have heard me, for its tiny ears swivelled back toward the sound of my footsteps, but it didn't seem to have a care in the world except for its quest for more food. I noticed that when it climbed up into the second tree, its great claws gouged into the bark, but the bark itself miraculously healed as it climbed. Once up among the branches, it searched for fruit and nuts to gorge on, using its elemental powers to both speed up the maturity of the plants so that they were the perfect ripeness for eating, and to make the plant itself produce a glut.
This, then, was how it survived on the rocky slopes, moving from tree to tree and taking as much as it wanted. Strangely, it seemed to leave the fruits and nuts that took "too long" to ripen—however it counted that time frame was beyond me, but it did this for the following three trees before it was finally satisfied. Then, it wound its way back to a rocky hollow it had dug into the mountainside and curled up within to nap. It seemed to live a peaceful, carefree life.
Catalogue
Designation: Amber Polyglide (FYND# 666-A6)
Notes: The size of a large child, and gluttonous. Since spotting the first creature, I have stumbled upon six more, all of whom were some shade of yellow. They are often sociable, in that they will not fight other polyglides in their vicinity and will usually engage in mutual grooming sessions before amicably parting ways. Have witnessed a mother polyglide carrying two pups on her back. Reminds me of home.
Maybe I should let sitting hit differently today. Maybe I should sit with myself instead of sitting beside myself. The sky is a perfect shade of blue. The clouds are like tufts of cotton in the sky. Most of the trees have gone bare, and there was a layer of frost on every house and lawn this morning. I saw it, but I didn't take it in. Today, I will try to do that. I want to notice things again. I want to hold my own hand and lead myself through my inner garden and point out the pretty things.
Perhaps I'll make tea. There's a comfort in the act of scooping every loose leaf into the infuser. There's something about the smell of tea, both dried and brewed, that makes me feel a little more human. Which shall I choose? Melon? Peach? Pomegranate? Something daring. Something bold. Chamomile is for quiet nights. I want to wake up inside. I've been sleeping for too long.
Gift: A packet of wildflower seeds
They appear on my bedside table on a day where I feel I should have nothing to do. So I pick them up, and I put on my galoshes, and I tramp out to the garden and poke holes in the dirt with my fingers. I drop a seed into each hole with deliberate care, and cover them with dirt like I'm tucking a child into bed.
There's a watering can by the garden hose that wasn't there before. It's in the shape of a cottage not unlike my own, and the spout is shaped like a mushroom sprouting from one side. I fill it up and trickle water over my new friends, whispering encouragement as the earth grows dark with damp. Soon, I know, they will bloom. We will bloom. Together.
I would do well to stretch out like a cat instead of curling up like a pillbug. I always feel so much guilt just for existing as I am—I apologise for my awkwardness, my quiet, my clumsiness, my passion. It feels like no matter what I do, I can never do it correctly, so perhaps I should give up on "perfect" and "pleasant". I am me, and I am who I am. That is enough, and always has been.
Gift: A sprig of night blooming jasmine
How it got from the trellis in the garden to a vase on my bedside table, I'll never know. Still, it blooms every night and fills the room with sweetness, making it easier for me to drift into pleasant dreamscapes until dawn. Whenever I retreat to my bedroom with a worry or a sickness in my heart, one whiff of the jasmines sends me straight into a peaceful serenity. I wonder why they never wilt?
Was shocked at night by the appearance of a distant, lumbering giant whose very footfalls swept up enough sand to create a buffeting sandstorm. From within my protective bubble, I watched as it moved across the moonlit landscape, trailing behind it a shaggy mass of ochre-coloured hair that brought to mind a sentient toupee. Surely the excess fur made it prone to overheating during the day, and so it only traversed the desert at night. It made a sound like a thousand susurrations as it moved across the horizon, though I am uncertain as to whether that was the creature itself, or the sound of the sandstorm it left in its wake.
It seemed to be alone as it traversed the desert, and I note here that I had not seen another of its kind until now. Was it searching for more of its kind? How did a creature so massive escape my notice? How did it get enough water to survive? I had so many questions, and so I packed up my kit and followed at a respectable distance.
Hours later, in the pre-dawn gloom, it approached a crater-shaped dip in the dunes, where a smaller, juvenile specimen of the same creature awaited it. Its young, perhaps waiting for its parent to return from… hunting? Gathering? I could not even fathom how or what such a huge, hairy thing ate. I could see neither mouths nor eyes on the creatures, so dense was their fur. I watched as they settled down to sleep the day away, the juvenile tucked against their caretaker's enormous body.
I will follow them for a few days. More information to follow.
Catalogue
Designation: Albertisian Malenk (FYND# 771-4)
Notes: Many stories tall and incredibly docile. Relies on elemental winds to throw up defensive sandstorms to drive away potential pests and parasites. Appears to be a very devoted parent to its offspring, travelling huge distances to forage from the Forest of Giants to the northeast. Perhaps they raise their young in the desert to avoid predation on the much smaller juvenile. Witnessed juvenile clumsily harnessing wind to blow its first sandstorms, and heard it making what I can only describe as low bugling noises as it frolicked near its parent. Very cute.
She is gone! Dead! I have killed her! Little Clarette—trusting Clarette—dead at my hands! She was so eager to feed me, so happy to provide when I was at my lowest, but my hunger—that damnable demon inside of me—took more from her than she could give! I must bury her tonight. I will do that much for her.
—
She lives! But, gods, at what cost? Now this young woman is eternal like me, and she bears the Mark of tears that are made of blood. Now, she must never shed a single tear in front of a mortal man, lest he cleave her head from her shoulders. This poor child. She is so very brave, but I can tell that this is a terrible shock.
Henrique and I have invited her into our home, but she has had to abandon all that she holds dear. Her family must now be as strangers to her, for she must never speak to them again. Loving they may have been, but not many people on this earth would forgive the sin of being a vampire.
—
Clarette and Henrique have been spending more and more time together. I am happy for them, as they are both like children to me. I want nothing more than for them to be happy, too. Still, that maw inside my chest yawns ever wider. When will I have such companionship? Thoughts for another day…
—
Can vampires sire biological children? I must ask Louis if it can be done!
I made a mistake. Truly, I am in unfamiliar territory, both physically and psychologically. I went too far afield in my hunt, driven by desperation to feed and finding nothing in the surrounding area to entrance. By the time I had found a deer on which to feed on, it was nearly dawn. Even with my enhanced speed and stamina, I could not have made it home to Henrique in time. I was forced to shelter in the hayloft of a barn a few kilometres from our property, and to my surprise, I was discovered—by a child, of all things.
Her name is Clarette. She is dainty, but strong, and spirited above all else. She was fearless when she clambered up the ladder to approach me, and she swore she would tell no one I was there, in exchange for the story behind how I found myself there to begin with. She had so many questions! Why was I out hunting in the middle of the night? Can I see in the darkness? How far, and how so? Do I have special eyes? Am I superhuman? A fairy, perhaps, or a goblin of some sort? But then, she reasoned, I do not look like a goblin. But what if goblins do not look like goblins?
She spent an hour dissecting my story, until she was called away by the voice of a young woman. She made me promise to stay until evening, and then she ran off to do gods know what—probably her daily chores around her farmstead. I whiled away the hours braiding hay into little plaits and dozing, and it felt like no time at all before she was calling up to me from the ground below.
"How did you know I was here?" I asked her at last.
"The horses," she simply replied. "The horses told me."
And that was that.
She gave me an egg that she had stolen from her sister's basket that morning, still warm from her apron pocket. A gift, she said, between friends. I had nothing to give her, I pointed out, but she said that was alright.
"Friends do not always have to give each other gifts," she said. "Only when it pleases them."
"Then it would please me," I said, "to have a gift for you the next time I visit."
"So you will visit again?" she asked, practically pouncing on my promise.
"Yes," I said, "so long as you tell no one about the funny man in the hayloft."
"I swear it," she said, holding her hand cupped over her heart.
"Then I swear I will have a marvellous gift for you, when next I return."
She bade me to hook my pinkie finger with hers, spat on the hayloft floor, and shook my hand; thus, it was agreed.
It was too good to last. Henrique has informed me that there have been enquiries as to my whereabouts in the city. A man by the name of Curtis Eisley has been asking about a man with black hair and smoked glasses who travels the city by night, and he has been getting closer and closer to our home. Henrique has been good to me these last six years, and I have no doubt that he would fight whatever forces are gathering outside our door, but I have no want for his blood to be shed on my behalf.
Today is a calm and beautiful day. Nary a whisper of a breeze, and the last of the autumnal leaves still cling to the trees outside our windows. Still, I cannot sit still. I cannot sleep. I keep pacing my bedroom, all but wearing a groove in the wood floor. Something within me is baying like a hound at the hunt—like a cornered animal being prodded in a cage. I can't help but feel like something terrible is going to happen, and nothing poor Henrique can do or say can calm my anxieties.
There is a knock at our door. This does not bode well.
—
Now we've done it. Seven men are dead inside our home, and more might come on the morrow. We have only tonight to flee, and I fear poor Henrique must be spirited away lest the authorities decide to lock him up and throw away the key. Our home is destroyed, set alight by one of Eisley's men. I was only able to save my journal and a change of clothes in my haste, and Henrique his savings. We have just enough to start fresh somewhere far away from here, if we live frugally. Mercifully, I have no actual material need for food and water, but there is still the matter of our need to avoid the sun.
I dare not lead them to Louis. It will break his heart to lose me, I know, but I cannot risk Henrique. I will return when he passes, one way or another. For now, we must alight. Henrique suggested that we steal a horse and ride hard into the countryside—he is a skilled huntsman, and he will survive in the wild. It is the burgeoning cold that worries me most; we cannot abide it for long, lest Henrique die of exposure in the wilderness. For now, the horse is tired, and we must not kill it of exhaustion.
—
It has been weeks since last I wrote. Too much has happened, and yet little of note. We have arrived in the neighbouring country, far past its borders, and Henrique has converted his savings into the local currency. It was enough to buy a small house in the countryside, and enough food to last him the winter. Still, I worry; Henrique has been losing weight lately. I must tend to him.
Her love delights me. It fortifies and grounds me. She is the divine made flesh, she is the reflection of the sun on the pale face of the moon, she is everything incarnate. She is the rain after a drought, she is the shelter in a storm, she is the fire in a tundra and the light in the darkness. Every smile is a balm, every laugh a celebration.
Every time I think there couldn't be more of her to love, she reveals another sweet secret, like a flower growing yet another velvet petal, like a sunbeam revealing a hidden room in a well-loved home. She is sumptuous and vivacious, clever and quick as a fencer's foil, radiant as a forest in full bloom. Words cannot describe her, and yet I must sing her virtues from the rooftops, crow her praises like a rooster calls to the rising sun.
She is a blessing, and she blesses me.
Gift: A hand-painted porcelain tea set
She gifts it to me when I least expect it. The porcelain is milk white and it's painted with a menagerie of wildflowers whose petals stir with every little breeze. It always holds tea at just the right temperature, neither too hot nor too cold, and it lives on a tea trolley in the kitchen.
I do not know how, but Gisel's grandson found me. Poor, darling Gisel, who was my most trusted confidante in the king's court, never forgot about me. Now, his grandson has come to pledge fealty to me, and I know not what to do. Louis has advised me to accept his help, as there are certain things that one needs to do in the light of day, but I am hesitant to take such a young man under my care, such as it is.
His name is Henrique. He is all of twenty years old, bright-eyed with determination and without a care as to how I have come to be what I am. All he wants is to serve me, and I feel as though it would be kinder to reject him. Gods know I have tried. But his fire is undimmed, and he asks for me every night to make his case.
"Accept him already," Louis tells me after the umpteenth night, rubbing his temples by the light of the fire.
I know I am making a mountain out of a molehill, but my heart would not rest if something were to happen to Henrique in my employ. I have nothing to give him, this I insist. He, in turn, insists that he does not care for things such as money. He has a day job that pays handsomely, and he has no wife or children to spend his money on. He tells me that he has bought a home on the outskirts of the city, large and quiet and well shaded from the sun even on the warmest days. There, he tells me, I will be safe, and he will be my middleman for whatever business I need to conduct during the daytime hours.
Eventually, I relent.
Henrique bends over backwards to make me feel welcome. The whole of the upper floor of the house is mine to do with as I see fit, as is the cellar. I ask that a bed be installed in the latter, and in the largest room of the former, I request that Henrique begin collecting books for a proper library. I feel as though I have been remiss in my education since I became a creature of the night, and Henrique seems quietly pleased when I break my unobtrusive silence to ask it of him. It seems he truly does enjoy being able to provide for me, despite my earlier reservations.
Still, he seems a little… odd. I am not allowed within his bedroom—a reasonable request—but he seems to be especially protective of his space, so much so that he will only speak through his door when I come knocking, and will not open the door until he has heard my footsteps retreat down the hall. Curious, but I am not the prying sort. Yet.
I remember his nails, gleaming wetly in the alley I found him in. Even in the dark, I remember thinking that they were impossibly long, more like the talons of some ragged beast than the fingernails of an impoverished man down on his luck. I remember helping him up onto his feet, and then down onto his knees when it was clear his legs would not hold his own weight. And then the world turned inside out, and I remember nothing more until I woke in that same alley some hours later, covered in my own blood and hungrier than I had any right to be.
I look down at my nails now and see that I have inherited them from my sire. My fingers, once so elegant and fine, are now long and thin, and my nails are thick and curved like claws. I file them short and paint them to hide their appearance as best I can, but I know they are there. I feel them growing throughout the night, digging into my palms when I make fists. When the occasion calls for it, I wear gloves, and that is when I am at my calmest. Strange, how something as simple as fingernails would make me anxious.
How has it been a hundred years? It feels like only yesterday I would have walked to the market for a pastry and a cup of bitter coffee first thing in the morning, and then ambled down to the shore to enjoy the sunrise making mischief over the waves. Now, being too close to the sea makes me feel uneasy and ill, and I avoid the burn of the sun like the plague. There has to be something more to all of this. I am determined to find it.
What if I stopped focusing on the thorns in me, and instead looked toward the flowers? What would grow within me if I removed my blinders and stopped ravaging my hands trying to tear every bad thing out by its roots?
I think I could be happier. Not only passively, but actively, unapologetically happier. I remember the childlike whimsy in me, the unfettered joy within my heart when I was younger and less bruised. What if I let those bruises heal? What if I stopped digging my fingers into them to keep them around longer? I could be magical. I could be free. Perhaps I will be. Perhaps I'll start looking toward the stars instead of down at each unsteady footstep.
What's stopping me except my own self-doubt? What's damming the river but my own self-loathing? If I must be gentle with myself, then my touch will be as down. My heart will be a place of feathers and sunlight. I just need time, and the drive to do better by myself. Soon, friend. Soon.
Gift: A punnet of wild strawberries
I find them on my doorstep, plump and red as jewels. They find a home on my kitchen island, always as fresh as the morning I found them. I make them into jam, slice them over my oatmeal, or eat them fresh with cream. Whenever I think I've run out, there always seem to be more.
It feels like home the moment I walk up to it, but I don't remember how I got here. It's a little cottage situated at the bend of a river, past a thick carpet of wild raspberry brambles and swaying honeysuckle, nestled on a bed of clover and moss. The low drone of insects melts away the closer I get, though there is still the odd honeybee drinking deeply of the jasmines that cling to the front of the cottage exterior. I can hear blue jays and cardinals calling in the trees surrounding the cottage, and frogs singing atop the lily pads at the river's edge.
Once past the threshold, I can tell that it's bigger on the inside, with an airy, spacious kitchen and a squashy sofa by the fireplace. Every window I open seems to let in the perfect amount of sunlight, chased by a refreshing breeze. The air is cool and moist without being too damp, and there's a desk surrounded by crafting supplies in the light of the most wonderful sunbeam. The bedroom is light and comfortable, and the bed is just right—neither too firm, nor too soft, and the sheets are warm but not stifling.
Beneath the staircase there's a cupboard door that leads into a library of colourful books and plump chairs, and the kitchen always seems to brew the perfect cup of tea—iced or warm—whenever I feel thirsty. There's a claw-foot tub in the bathroom that feels like a swimming pool but it's just right for soaking in, and the salts are scented with rose and vanilla. When I come back to the sitting area, there is a note on the coffee table, penned in glittering pink ink on cream-coloured parchment:
I have never been hungrier in all of my life. Even when I was living on the streets as a mortal, before I served the king, I had never had an ache like this in my belly. Louis helps me cope by allowing me to feed on him when I am ravenous, but even his blood is finite, and he must leave me to feed once I have drained him. I cannot help but feel guilty when he staggers away from me, but without him, I fear I would go mad.
Am I changing again? What caused the long rest? I have no answers, and neither does Louis. For all that I am grateful that he and his husband have given me a home, I cannot help but feel envious of their bond. I fear that I can only watch them for so long before I feel a different sort of emptiness inside of me—one that I am not at all sure how to satiate. I have never been the jealous sort, and I do not think this is jealousy; after all, I am not covetous of Louis—or Rissa, for that matter. However, I cannot help but feel… lonely.
Food for thought, I suppose. Though perhaps I should not mention food…
Rissa and Louis were wonderful hosts. They never once made me feel like I was being a burden unto them, and they were gracious and kind as they helped me acclimate to my new reality. Before my "long rest", as we'd taken to calling it, I had barely been scraping by. I was feeding sporadically, and nearly getting myself killed as a result of my fumbling attempts to seduce my unknowing prey. Louis didn't have my Mark, but he could understand its effects on mortals in theory, and he helped me put it into practice.
The problem was my reluctance to sustain eye contact. It made me feel squeamish to look a person in the eyes, knowing that my gaze would hypnotise. However, Louis informed me of a rather new invention since I'd last been conscious: spectacles fitted with smoked glass. They provided no corrective powers, but they worked to conceal the eyes from the glare of the sun, and thus also conceal them from the naked eye.
He helped to procure a pair for me, and to my delight, they worked a treat. For the first time since I'd been Marked, I was able to hold eye contact with a mortal without entrancing them. Thus began my practice at sustained eye contact. I was able to hold normal conversations with mortals for the first time in years—a feeling that was bittersweet and surreal. Through this, I was eventually able to work up the nerve to sustain eye contact with a target without the spectacles to obscure my eyes, and for the first time since being turned, I was able to successfully lure a mortal into my embrace.
The bad news was that I accidentally killed them. It happened twice more, and each time, Louis instructed me to ravage their throats with a serrated blade to hide the evidence of my feeding, and then we threw the corpses into the river. It took those three failed attempts to attune myself to the tells of a mortal body, to assuage my century-old hunger to the point where I would not drain them dry, and to successfully use my magic to encourage their natural healing to make it so that the evidence of my feeding would all but disappear. Ironically, it would heal into a mark resembling a large mosquito bite.
The knowledge left a bitter taste in my mouth. Bah.
