"Don't leave," says Walnut, seated with her back to the fire. Her hands are twitching furiously around a heap of twigs and, with a few tugs and twists, they were becoming something that looked intentional.
"What if I want to leave?" replied Donaar, whose curiosity had momentarily wrestled its way in front of his pride. A few silent, scrunched-face moments later, he remembers to be offended. "Hey! You don't tell me what to do."
He is reaching slowly for the handle, turning his head and looking at her with one eye at a time.
"Suit yourself," she says. The work continues.
He's doing the math on it now. He knows she can talk to cats. Talked to a tree once, too. He thinks she might be part tree herself, which would explain that bit. He thinks, but does not know for certain, that she is, like, friends with the wind or something. He doesn't like the idea that she knows something he doesn't. Which she can't possibly. Can she? His head began to pound.
Her charm is finished, now, and well made. She tugs it tight, to help it prevail against the season. Its shape, yew body, and sage skirt have armed it to wage quiet war in a doomed world, and she whispers a few words of encouragement that echo in its little bones.
One of the terrible things about towns - she has a list - is that spirits of protection and comfort cannot navigate them. Not without help, at least. She opens the door, fixes the thing she has made there, and says, "Omi…" No, too formal. "You may go."
Donaar crosses the room and takes her seat, tilting it back on two legs, and shrugs. "I don't want to."
He folds his arms and goes to sleep.
Art assist and inspiration from Walnut herself, Amy The Falcon.
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Happy New Year, or something close to it. The Limited Edition New Year's Pin I breathlessly described earlier is now available!
(CW)TB
