Woven Shadows

Chapter 2

The first light of dawn began to filter through the small cracks in the window, casting a soft glow on the stone walls. Quite honestly, the light was hurting my eyes, but next to nighttime, dawn was my favorite time of day. It was the feeling that 'things might be different today' that dawn brought. The quiet and stillness you get before the chaos of whatever the day brings. 

The familiar warmth of the hearth had nearly faded, reduced to glowing embers, barely flickering. I lay there on the couch for a moment, sinking deeper into the cushions, the weight of sleep still heavy on me. My body felt sluggish, my mind thick with remnants of the night before, and for a brief moment, I forgot about the dream.

But it didn't last. The images came rushing back—vivid, unsettling: the dove's wide, frightened eyes, the flames that devoured everything, and the voice, calm and commanding: It's time to begin living. I sat up slowly, groaning as a dull ache settled into my head. I rubbed my temples, trying to shake the feeling of the dream still clinging to me like a second skin.

The fire. It had felt so real, but it wasn't possible. I glanced at the hearth, embers faintly glowing, warmth still radiating from them. Had I let the fire burn through the night? Maybe that had messed with my dream. Or perhaps it was the fact that I'd passed out drunk on the couch instead of going to bed, leaving my body twisted and uncomfortable. The thought settled uneasily in my mind, but I pushed it aside.

I stood slowly, my legs stiff, and made my way to the kitchen. The worn floorboards creaked beneath my feet, each step pulling me further from the lingering haze of sleep. The kitchen, like the rest of the cottage, was small but filled with everything I needed. Herbs hung from wooden beams above, dried and bundled neatly—lavender, thyme, rosemary, and a dozen others my father had taught me to use. There were jars of concoctions lining the shelves, each one labeled carefully in my father's steady hand. He had always made sure I knew how to prepare them—healing salves, teas for relaxation, potions to aid sleep. He had taught me so much growing up. It was always such busy days with him, but they were filled with laughter and plenty of mistakes. Like the one time, I made a concoction that made him go to the washroom all day instead of curing his headache. He didn't let me try again for a week!

I grabbed a metal kettle from the counter and filled it with water from the basin. The steady drip of water was the only sound breaking the stillness of the morning as I placed the kettle on the stove, the faint hiss of heat beginning to rise. The scents of the herbs filled the air, familiar and grounding, but today, they didn't comfort me as they usually did.

I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest, and stared out the small window above the sink. The forest stretched out in front of me, green and quiet in the early light. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering to one another in soft rustles. My father used to say the forest had its own language, that it spoke if you were quiet enough to listen. He'd spend hours teaching me the names of the plants that grew in the wild, how to identify them, and what they were used for. I think it was just a way for us to pass the days, something to keep us busy in the quiet moments. Maybe he just wanted me to be happy in our little isolation outside the small village.

The kettle began to whistle softly, steam rising from the spout. I moved to take it off the stove, pouring the hot water into a chipped ceramic mug. The smell of herbs—something calming, lavender and chamomile—filled the air as I cradled the mug between my hands, letting the warmth seep into my skin. I took a small sip, the heat of the tea bringing a brief moment of comfort.

My gaze drifted over to the shelf near the hearth, where my father's belongings sat, carefully arranged in a way that felt permanent, like they had always been there. Wooden carvings, an old compass, a map of the different Kingdoms pinned to the wall beside it—remnants of the life he had lived before I was born. He never told me much about where he had traveled or what he had seen, and I had never asked. I had always assumed there would be time to ask. Now, those stories were gone, locked away with him.