Page 25 of Tales of a Monstrous Heart
After spending the rest of the day helping William, I returned to my own studies, occupying my evening by skulking about my huge room, unable to think of anything other than a mysterious, occult-worshipping lord as I tossed and turned in my massive bed that night.
Alma bit me twice for disturbing her sleep, so I was relieved when dawn arrived. Hoping a walk around the grounds of Blackthorn Manor in the fresh air would return my senses.
With Alma slumbering in cat form, I dressed quietly in my shirt, tightening my walking-skirt belt, my bag hanging from it with everything I needed concealed inside: a healing pack, sample containers, fresh ink and my notebook. Ready for whatever could greet me in the wilderness, I shrugged on my walking jacket before slipping from the room.
The entrance hall and front doors had returned to where they had been when I’d first arrived, and luckily were unlocked. Sharp morning air struck my cheeks as I slipped outside, gravel crunching under my boots in greeting.
Moving quickly off the path to begin my wandering, the cold dew from the long grass soaking quickly into my worn boots. The woods in the distance were like something from one of the wild-folk storybooks. Twisting ancient trees wrappedin moss and ivy, the muted morning light almost blue with the winter fog. So old I wondered if they’d been here when the ancient fey kings had ruled, when banshees hunted the night and dragons guarded mountain passes in the west. If these lands had seen all the things I could only read about now. Truths turned to myth too easily.
It had been so long since I’d wandered free amongst the wilderness. The Institute only had the small Mages’ Garden, not big enough to get lost in, and too well-maintained for anything exciting to grow.
The wilder lands were where all the big advancements in magic could be found.
Here I was greeted by fresh cold air. No city smoke. The sweet tang of magic from the earth. Real. I closed my eyes and for the barest moment, I could imagine I was home. Back in the northern lands, hearing the sea crash against the rocks. Back before everything fell apart so easily.
Shaking off the dark thought, I trudged through the grass until I came to the overgrowth that marked the border to the woods, dark and tangled before me. The mist refused to lift as I ducked beneath the low branches.
The rich scent of damp earth filled my lungs as I climbed over large rocks and thick, knotted roots. Strange bird calls grew louder as the sun rose, my palms running over the thick moss that wrapped around the tree trunks as I avoided the bright mushrooms and small flowers that littered the patches of earth the sun touched.
My hair slipped free of its braid with all the exertion, falling heavy down my back, though not enough to distract me as I stumbled upon the remains of a small wyverns’ nest deep between ancient tree roots. It looked recently abandoned, egg shards left and the feathers of the mother’s prey tangledbeneath the intricate webbing of branches and animal bones, sitting deep in the damp soil.
I set myself down, opened my bag and pulled my papers free. I sketched the nest, the smoothness of the egg shards and the sharpness of the beaks of the creatures that would have once lived inside them. Stealing feathers, egg shards and branches, to push between the pages of my book, making a quick note of all the wyverns’ territorial markings on the trees close by.
Small little eyes glinted like tiny fireflies from the darkness inside hollowed-out tree stumps. Tiny wildwood creatures called folk, made of remnant earth magic, they were the distant relatives of dust sprites. Creatures that willed themselves into being, existing long before fey, and perhaps long after.
I laid down quietly on my stomach, hidden by the weeds as my chin rested on my folded arms, waiting patiently, just as I had as a child, when my mother had lain down with me, waiting for the creatures to emerge, as they did now. Cautious of any shadow or noise. Their tiny, soundless moss feet and toadstool heads with beetle wings glistening with dew before they scuttled off back into the long grass.
I watched them scurry across the earth and into their hiding places, thick cracks in an ancient oaks trunk. Quietly, I dragged my notebook closer to draw them. Every detail from their root-made bodies, acorn heads and thin twig arms.
I watched them until they vanished with the morning mist, the weak winter sun making me sit up as long shadows stretched across the forest floor. The vastness of the knotted wood before me lured me deeper into the ancient Blackthorn Forest until I spotted a valek nest high above, hidden between great ancient tree branches. I debated climbing up to it, but then thought better of it as I considered the worn sole of myboot. Alma had done her best to repair it and I couldn’t go back with it any more damaged.
A glint in the long grass sent me forward to a perfect collection of smooth shed scales. Lying there like a small offering. I dropped to my knees, amazed I’d beaten the folk to finding such a treasure. I rummaged in my bag for a sample jar.
Valek were rare, a creature of enormous size, both scaled and possessing feathers like a strange reptilian bird. They had a sharp jaw with lethal fanged teeth that had the ability to feast on dark magic, and were covered in both silver scales and white feathers. They’d been hunted by the King’s followers to near extinction, lies peddled in papers that the creatures were attacking beings. The only beings they attacked were those who summoned the dark.
I settled down against a fallen tree trunk, marvelling at my find before tucking it safely into my bag. Then I shrugged off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and focused on my research to pass the time, soon reaching my fifth page of notes, as I rolled the remaining shell fragments between my fingertips.
Such vast nature called to me in a way I couldn’t fully explain. It wasn’t a battered book or a torn page I had to decipher. It was real, undeniable in its potency and all the lessons it had to teach. Yet, I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to get lost in it, despite my urgency to learn more during whatever short period Blackthorn could stomach my being here for.
The bird calls grew louder, fog dispersing as the sun rose high, making me realise just how much time had passed.
My neck ached from my stooped position, fingers muddy and ink stained, pages of notes littered around my feet in the long grass.
I’d lost track of time again.
Quickly, I tidied up my things, tucked my jacket into the crook of my arm despite the cold wind and headed back the way I’d come, following the disturbed path through the thicket. The icy wind persisted, forcing me to circle back to the house over the uneven, thick grass as my legs began to ache, unfamiliar with the freedom to wander over such unforgiving terrain.
The remains of the cottage came closer, a slight blur around it that I should have noticed the first time. It seemed sad and forgotten in the vastness of the landscape. Exactly what the ancient glamour around it wanted me to see.
The clouds parted, rays of sunlight drenching the grass before me. The brightness catching on a patch of white flowers. A sharp jab of grief between my ribs stopped me in my tracks.
I knew they weren’t uncommon so far west, but it had been so long since I’d seen them. Azenia, the small white flowers mistaken for weeds by most. I crouched, twisting one of the thin stems so it came away from its patch easily. The petals as soft as I remembered with a vibrant purple middle.
The everlasting bloom. Kysillian kings had worn it woven around their crowns during coronations, and warriors kept them close to their hearts before battle. Burial shrouds were covered with lengths of them.
I remembered braiding the stems with my mother, knotting them tightly before we hung it around my father’s neck as he left. The bittersweet smell as the stems stained our fingers green.
Amartis. My mother had whispered into his ear, as she held him close with her pregnant belly between them. A phrase she thought I wouldn’t hear as I clutched her skirts.
