It was a week since John’s sudden departure and yet there has been no news of the blonde, not from the man himself nor his best mate. Pure and utter silence was something John excelled at leaving behind, alongside the remnants of his presence that was now painfully made aware.
A half-pack of cigarettes on the dresser, worn socks in the laundry basket, a plate of spiced potatoes at the back of the fridge that he whipped up one late night. The overspilling ash-tray by the dining table, his scratchy notes and folded papers tossed about the counter, a shotglass that he filled with dirt from Salem, a dreamcatcher he had woven just the other day with spidersilk, breathed to attunement with a faerie’s cry.
The silvery dreamcatcher now hung above Jason’s bed, glimmering away in the moonlit night. It was a waning crescent that christened the skies then, peppered with stars that aligned by the knight’s window. They twinkled softly, as if they were sharing amongst themselves a special little secret of the one immortal that lay asleep beneath their watch.
A little something perhaps, to dry the unshed tears on his pillow that night.
“Iason! Iason! Whence art ye, boy, Cometh at mine call!”
Said Myrddin over his shoulder, busying himself at the cauldron that was frothing over the heat of chopped firewood.
“The hearth aches for kindling and ye shall fetch to slake its thirst. Do not tarry, boy, I fear for mine brew’s potency.”
The wizard was hard at work, chopping herbs and drafting notes with his experiments, and seated next to him in Iason’s usual spot was a young boy, no older than Iason himself, tall and thin and pale as chalk, with a serious look upon his face and the oddest set of looking spheres perched upon that proud nose.
“Hie, boy, ye hath forgotten to wet the ink with widow’s tears. How mayhaps, shall I write? Tis well that young Timotheos hath graced mine study with his presence. Hie, Iason, come greet thine friend.”