chai tea and the five stages of grief

Untitled Part 1

Misha loved cinnamon.

She loved a dash of it in her morning tea, the snap of a stick when broken in half, the hint of flavor it would add to apples when sprinkled on, the pleasant brown color of it, the rich smell of cinnamon rolls, but most of all she she loved when Cinnamon would cup her cheek in one hand and smile that smile that could light up her whole world.

Cinnamon's name was a great point of teasing that Misha delighted in taking advantage of whenever she could. She would croon out pet name after pet name until she got a blush out of the typically so stoic Cinnamon when it came to the mushier emotions, ruffling dark brown hair and trying to mimic that world warming smile. She had been the one to give the other the name, Cinnamon would always point out over an embarrassed cough. Cinnamon didn't go by anything that Misha could pronounce when they first met.

Misha loved Cinnamon in her entirety, but there were complexities. The life the two led always had them. What Cinnamon was changed from day to day. She wore the face of Thulian priests, of the merchant that sold the two of them fruit every week, of the last man she had killed. Cinnamon kept it to the more human persuasions when in the cozy cabin the two shared, but Misha could hear the rustle of wings, the crunch of hoof, the hiss of scales on the ground when she left for business.

Work was work. Misha knew that she was a good person. She knew that the change that Kalmisto was leading, ingrained deep in the lowest ladder rungs of society at the moment, was good, even if she questioned his methods. The three of them were working to change the world. She would do whatever Kalmisto asked of her, would be forever taking up her magic to silence those that did not understand the trio's good work.

Misha knew that she would not falter in The Cause, the righteous revenge against their human oppressors, but it seemed Kalmisto didn't. That, or he simply saw the versatility of Cinnamon more attractive than her own. Cinnamon was competent at what she did. Almost terrifyingly so, if Misha was to be honest. She didn't know what she was, as much as she loved her, and memories of their first job together two years ago still would flicker through her mind during twilight hours. Sharp teeth and hungry eyes, flesh that bubbled and turned black as it melted into vicious, wolfish forms.

But Cinnamon was so sweet when she was home. The appearance she most favored, she told Misha one evening when cuddled into Misha's arms, was based off of a hunter she had met once, before she twisted it with her own touches. Choppy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, rosy cheeks with a smattering of freckles, a mouthful of sharp fangs, bright wide eyes always shone with an almost manic energy. Though her eyes always looked like that (even beyond the odd colors she would flash through with each shift, always changing and always unique). Cinnamon felt as if she was always just a little too large to contain the entirety of her spirit in whichever disguise she wore.

She would smother Misha in little acts of kindness, gifts from jobs and interest in whatever Misha was doing. Cinnamon was not human physically, but she was in her love, and Misha loved her back dearly. Complexities and all.

*

The last time that Misha ever saw Cinnamon alive, it started when she stumbled downstairs at the crack of dawn. Misha was already sitting at the table of their shared cozy kitchen, writing diligently in her latest herbology journal. Cinnamon had brought home a bundle of flowers two jobs ago that she didn't recognize, white and speckled blue on their delicate petals, and she was attempting to fit them into her own unique system of categorization. Flora was her everything, taking a spot just below The Cause and Cinnamon.

Cinnamon had woke Misha only a few hours ago by scratching at their shared bedroom's window, the intelligent light in the bright eyes of the crow there all that let Misha know who it was. Cinnamon fell through the window in a poof of feathers and shifted back to her favored form, looking perfect but clearly exhausted. Misha put her to bed before sneaking out downstairs as to not disturb her. Misha hadn't seen her in over three weeks, the time passing slowly since she left for the latest job.