As the Vampire Realm prepares for battle against a mysterious enemy, the city's captiol is thrown into mayhem once the lost Princess returns to reclaim her throne. There's just one small problem, the Princess is human.
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Thorn drapes the crown of seashells over Father's head.
For days, her and I have carefully crafted the wreath, in hopes it would diminish the rather painful look of the thorns that encircle his head. As she fusses around Father's head, adjusting the placement to her liking, I know we have done good. The statue glimmers in the afternoon sunlight, and I swear something in his eyes changes, or maybe it's my mind playing tricks on me.
I glance at the greenery which curves around the ceiling like a tapestry. Sunlight streams through it, which causes a mixed shade of yellow and green to filter near the first pew.
The last month has brought in more rain, and so something had to be done about the gaping hole in the ceiling. My days have been devoted to scavenging, for an assortment of large leaves. While I entrust Thorn to weave together branches. Together, we're able to stop the rain showers from dripping into the Church.
The island has truly become our home, we've seen every inch of it. Built a nice routine with morning hikes and nights spent on the beach, under a canopy of stars. For us, it is perfection.
Thorn flies to me and examines her work, then she glances at me seeking praise.
"The crown looks beautiful," I assure her, "you did a great job." Sure enough her hands had been the perfect size for the delicate crafting.
Resting on a pew near me is my brown leather satchel. A few weeks earlier curiosity got the best of me. I sheepishly opened the rustic door of the small garden shed. Inside I found gardening supplies, a shelf of seeds, surprisingly a bottle of wine, and discarded newspapers. This brown satchel was strewn forlornly, over the wooden floor. The leather bag has become home to my book that I had woken with, two months ago in the cavern.
I had wrapped the wine in newspaper and tucked it away in my bedroom, saving it for a celebratory cause. So, as Thorn continued to scrutinise her work I slipped down the hall and into our bedroom.
Hanging like a curtain on the window frame is a red flag, the symbolic sword and curving serpent billows in the breeze. At once I think back to my first day on the island. How the fabric fluttered from the whisk of a crash, straight into my awaiting hands. Time is passing by quickly, but for now I'll enjoy today, I'll live in the moment.
A small wooden side table is nestled beside my bed, it has a single drawer. I retrieve the bottle of wine and carefully place it in my bag, mindful not to weigh my book down.
Thorn squeaks from the doorway and I turn to her.
"Yes, yes we're going to the beach." It's odd but me and her have developed our own way of communication. Although we do not speak the same language, we understand each other just as fine.
