Tea for Two
Behind closed eyelids, she sees. Sees trays of tiny iced cakes decorated with edible petals, glazed cherries, chocolate butterflies, drizzled with caramel and dusted with sugar rested on layers on layers of delicate crocheted tablecloths, each no more than a wisp of white lace. Matching porcelain teacups, saucers and plates stacked carefully on each other, linen napkins and ornate silverware. And in the center of it all, a tall teapot flanked by a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes.
She doesn't have to look. Already, the picture has been burned into her mind. Doesn't have to count the time passed under the organza canopy. She knows he will come. The invitation has been sent; all there is left to do is wait.
So, she sits there, patiently. Awaiting.
First, all there is is the quiet. Unbroken by voice, birdcall, or wind through the trees. Quiet for a time. Then, a faint rustle of fabric.
When she opens here eyes, he is there.
"You came."
"I received your letter," he says, simply.
She nods.
"Nice place you have here. Your grandfather's, was it not?" he remarks, taking in everything in a lazy sweeping gesture.
She will not let herself be afraid.
"Forgive me for troubling you to come all this way."
"Oh, no trouble at all." He glances at the food prepared. "You made all this?"
"Yes."
"Can't remember when I last had a proper tea. Well, then, shall we?"
She blinks. For a moment she fears the fragile walls she has placed in front her heart will shatter. Clutching the wrought iron armrests of her seat, she fights the compulsion to bolt.
Run, run, run. As far away as you can, and never look back.
"I..." she snatches the first word the drifts into her panic-clouded mind. "I..." she tries again, but there is nothing left for her to say.
He looks at her, teapot in hand, his face a perfect mimicry of concern. From the crease between his eyebrows and the slight frown to the tilt of his head, everything is so carefully measured to create the worried expression. For she knows he cannot feel. "Tea," he says, a matter-of-factly, as if that one word could explain everything. "Surely, it must be proper for the man to serve the lady first."
She must stop staring so blankly. Touching a gloved hand to her chest, she can feel the crazed thumping of her heart. All her instincts are screaming at her to flee, yet stubbornly, she clings on. "P-Pardon me for causing you alarm. I am quite alright now," she reassures, all the while hearing the accusing heartbeats in her ears. Liar, liar, liar. Prey in plain sight of the hunter. Alright, you are not.
Something tugs at the corners of his mouth. Amusement? Mocking condensation? Whatever it is, she cannot tell. "How would you like your tea?"
"With milk. No sugar, please." Reaching for her cup, she holds it across the table.
She watches him take it, and with a deft hand pours her drink. Clouds of white blossom in the clear amber liquid, then dissolve into a murky pool pale brown. Distantly, she hears her own voice saying, "Enough, thank you." Silver clinks resoundingly on china, as he stirs the milk in.
Leaning over, he places the warm weight in her trembling hands.
She feels his fingers brush aside the hair from her ear, feels his lips against her skin. Close. So close.
If the heart could beat a drumroll, hers is doing one now. A frantic, hysterical pounding in her ears, ominously leading to a horrific climax.
"Your heart is beating so fast," he whispers low. "Why do you fear what your wished so long for?"
The heartbeats explode in her head. With a choked gasp, the teacup slips from her fingers, spilling on her hands, her dress and shattering into pieces on the table.
"...You..." she whispers, "You... know..."
He sighs dramatically, and touches the back of his hands to his forehead. "You wound me," he mummers in tones of feigned hurt. Then he smiles languidly. "Of course I know. You carried my image in your heart for half your life, ever since you heard the stories from your grandmother."
She is scrambling from her seat, eyes wide and lips dry. "The... Cherry Tree... Barrow Guardian..." In her haste, her failing hand catches on a porcelain fragment of her cup. With a cry, she stumbles and falls to the ground.
The soft click of heels on the stone floor, strolling over. "She left you behind in this world," he says, then more gently, "After she passed away, there you were, day to day, moving from one home to another, no real kin to call by name. Half-uncles, aunts and distant friends," He kneels in front of her shaking form, watching her eyes mist over at the memories. "Ahh... but there was no one who could replace her, was there?"
She clamps blood and tea-soaked gloved hands over her mouth, trying to still the sounds. Tears roll unbidden down pale cheeks, shoulders heaving as the sobs wreck her thin frame. The floodgates breaking open, a turmoil of feelings crashing inside of her.
She remembers the downturned faces, the smell of air heavy with burning sandalwood incense, the strange chants and white paper laterns. She remembers the sackcloth rough against her skin, the way her knees ached from kneeling; remembers the seven days and seven nights she laid spent from crying, face against the woven straw covering, sleeping in the drafty hall, refusing to leave the body unattended.
"On the day you knelt down in front of your grandmother's grave, and decided your life was not worth living, ever since you said those four words, I have marked you. Do you remember?"
Bloodshot eyes snap open, as hands fall limply her lap. "...I... want... to die." Then, turning her head stiffly to face him she whispers softly, "By... the Sakurazukamori's... hands..." For a moment, she stares, dread and sickening realization draining the colour from her face. "Did I... truly... wish so?"
Nodding sagely, he quotes, "You do not call Death to your door, only to turn Him away, child."
Hands twist together in despair. "Grandmother!"
"So the old lady warned you. You should have know."
"Am I... to die now?" She looks beseeching at the man before her.
Her eyes meet an empty gaze. "What was Wished, shall be Granted."
"No..." she shakes her head. "I'm sorry!" she wails. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" over and over, wringing her hands until her damp gloves tear. "I'm sorry! I never meant to!"
Wordlessly, he gathers the trembling girl into his arms. "Hush, child." She shudders once violently, then falls limp like a rag doll.
"I'm... sorry?" she asks weakly.
He regards her solemnly. "Truly, you are not."
The last of the tremors stop. For moment, she is silent.
Reflecting.
"...You are... right... I am... not sorry... ..."
He smiles. Cradling her head in one hand, he brushes back the hair that had fallen over her face with the other. "How can you be sorry, when this was what you wished for?"
She remembers the words so long ago she used to repeat to herself, her only comfort during those sleepless night, her ritual prayer. Her Death Wish. "Yes..." she smiles drowsy, her voice growing singsong, "For in his embrace... I shall... pledge my soul... and in his kiss... of death... I shall seal... my... promise..."
Brushing his lips against her forehead, he shifts to place her at armslength. "Shall I?" he asks, calm and unassuming.
With a wistful sigh, her eyelids close. "Take me."
Hand on flesh, hand through flesh, blood from flesh on hand and ground. She doesn't cry out, doesn't whimper, doesn't gasp.
"Willing souls are hard to come by," he muses, stroking her head.
Her flesh is still warm, by her breathing is laboured. But she doesn't struggle, doesn't try. Slowly, her features relax, as if going into a trance. She is saving her strength for one last thing.
Already the darkness comes slithering to her side, blurring the edges of her mind, ebbing her life force away. One last thing she must do, before she gives herself over. Only after this, can there be sweet surrender.
A breathe of cold air passes blood-drained lips, air from dying lungs, and a final exertion of will to tilt the corners in a grateful smile.
"I know, child," he mummers, "I know."
Then, before her, opens a dream of blood and magic, of paper streamers and pale blossoms scattered by bending trees. Beyond this, she cannot see. Only black, pitch black, a void. Then, all at once, she is in the dream, and the dream, in her. She walks, a winding path, stone by stone appear under her feet. When the path ends, she looks up.
There is a tree. One tree, in the middle of the gale, standing straight and tall, and in it, she sees a fire glowing, beckoning her with it's warmth. A fire in the heart of the tree, or is the tree on fire? It doesn't matter much.
She steps in to it.
The spring colours dance wildly, dancing in front of eyes that will never again see. Wind cries, echoing through the spaces in her heart.
"So passes another."
The old house stands still.
Behind closed eyelids, she sees. Sees trays of tiny iced cakes decorated with edible petals, glazed cherries, chocolate butterflies, drizzled with caramel and dusted with sugar rested on layers on layers of delicate crocheted tablecloths, each no more than a wisp of white lace. Matching porcelain teacups, saucers and plates stacked carefully on each other, linen napkins and ornate silverware. And in the center of it all, a tall teapot flanked by a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes.
She doesn't have to look. Already, the picture has been burned into her mind. Doesn't have to count the time passed under the organza canopy. She knows he will come. The invitation has been sent; all there is left to do is wait.
So, she sits there, patiently. Awaiting.
First, all there is is the quiet. Unbroken by voice, birdcall, or wind through the trees. Quiet for a time. Then, a faint rustle of fabric.
When she opens here eyes, he is there.
"You came."
"I received your letter," he says, simply.
She nods.
"Nice place you have here. Your grandfather's, was it not?" he remarks, taking in everything in a lazy sweeping gesture.
She will not let herself be afraid.
"Forgive me for troubling you to come all this way."
"Oh, no trouble at all." He glances at the food prepared. "You made all this?"
"Yes."
"Can't remember when I last had a proper tea. Well, then, shall we?"
She blinks. For a moment she fears the fragile walls she has placed in front her heart will shatter. Clutching the wrought iron armrests of her seat, she fights the compulsion to bolt.
Run, run, run. As far away as you can, and never look back.
"I..." she snatches the first word the drifts into her panic-clouded mind. "I..." she tries again, but there is nothing left for her to say.
He looks at her, teapot in hand, his face a perfect mimicry of concern. From the crease between his eyebrows and the slight frown to the tilt of his head, everything is so carefully measured to create the worried expression. For she knows he cannot feel. "Tea," he says, a matter-of-factly, as if that one word could explain everything. "Surely, it must be proper for the man to serve the lady first."
She must stop staring so blankly. Touching a gloved hand to her chest, she can feel the crazed thumping of her heart. All her instincts are screaming at her to flee, yet stubbornly, she clings on. "P-Pardon me for causing you alarm. I am quite alright now," she reassures, all the while hearing the accusing heartbeats in her ears. Liar, liar, liar. Prey in plain sight of the hunter. Alright, you are not.
Something tugs at the corners of his mouth. Amusement? Mocking condensation? Whatever it is, she cannot tell. "How would you like your tea?"
"With milk. No sugar, please." Reaching for her cup, she holds it across the table.
She watches him take it, and with a deft hand pours her drink. Clouds of white blossom in the clear amber liquid, then dissolve into a murky pool pale brown. Distantly, she hears her own voice saying, "Enough, thank you." Silver clinks resoundingly on china, as he stirs the milk in.
Leaning over, he places the warm weight in her trembling hands.
She feels his fingers brush aside the hair from her ear, feels his lips against her skin. Close. So close.
If the heart could beat a drumroll, hers is doing one now. A frantic, hysterical pounding in her ears, ominously leading to a horrific climax.
"Your heart is beating so fast," he whispers low. "Why do you fear what your wished so long for?"
The heartbeats explode in her head. With a choked gasp, the teacup slips from her fingers, spilling on her hands, her dress and shattering into pieces on the table.
"...You..." she whispers, "You... know..."
He sighs dramatically, and touches the back of his hands to his forehead. "You wound me," he mummers in tones of feigned hurt. Then he smiles languidly. "Of course I know. You carried my image in your heart for half your life, ever since you heard the stories from your grandmother."
She is scrambling from her seat, eyes wide and lips dry. "The... Cherry Tree... Barrow Guardian..." In her haste, her failing hand catches on a porcelain fragment of her cup. With a cry, she stumbles and falls to the ground.
The soft click of heels on the stone floor, strolling over. "She left you behind in this world," he says, then more gently, "After she passed away, there you were, day to day, moving from one home to another, no real kin to call by name. Half-uncles, aunts and distant friends," He kneels in front of her shaking form, watching her eyes mist over at the memories. "Ahh... but there was no one who could replace her, was there?"
She clamps blood and tea-soaked gloved hands over her mouth, trying to still the sounds. Tears roll unbidden down pale cheeks, shoulders heaving as the sobs wreck her thin frame. The floodgates breaking open, a turmoil of feelings crashing inside of her.
She remembers the downturned faces, the smell of air heavy with burning sandalwood incense, the strange chants and white paper laterns. She remembers the sackcloth rough against her skin, the way her knees ached from kneeling; remembers the seven days and seven nights she laid spent from crying, face against the woven straw covering, sleeping in the drafty hall, refusing to leave the body unattended.
"On the day you knelt down in front of your grandmother's grave, and decided your life was not worth living, ever since you said those four words, I have marked you. Do you remember?"
Bloodshot eyes snap open, as hands fall limply her lap. "...I... want... to die." Then, turning her head stiffly to face him she whispers softly, "By... the Sakurazukamori's... hands..." For a moment, she stares, dread and sickening realization draining the colour from her face. "Did I... truly... wish so?"
Nodding sagely, he quotes, "You do not call Death to your door, only to turn Him away, child."
Hands twist together in despair. "Grandmother!"
"So the old lady warned you. You should have know."
"Am I... to die now?" She looks beseeching at the man before her.
Her eyes meet an empty gaze. "What was Wished, shall be Granted."
"No..." she shakes her head. "I'm sorry!" she wails. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" over and over, wringing her hands until her damp gloves tear. "I'm sorry! I never meant to!"
Wordlessly, he gathers the trembling girl into his arms. "Hush, child." She shudders once violently, then falls limp like a rag doll.
"I'm... sorry?" she asks weakly.
He regards her solemnly. "Truly, you are not."
The last of the tremors stop. For moment, she is silent.
Reflecting.
"...You are... right... I am... not sorry... ..."
He smiles. Cradling her head in one hand, he brushes back the hair that had fallen over her face with the other. "How can you be sorry, when this was what you wished for?"
She remembers the words so long ago she used to repeat to herself, her only comfort during those sleepless night, her ritual prayer. Her Death Wish. "Yes..." she smiles drowsy, her voice growing singsong, "For in his embrace... I shall... pledge my soul... and in his kiss... of death... I shall seal... my... promise..."
Brushing his lips against her forehead, he shifts to place her at armslength. "Shall I?" he asks, calm and unassuming.
With a wistful sigh, her eyelids close. "Take me."
Hand on flesh, hand through flesh, blood from flesh on hand and ground. She doesn't cry out, doesn't whimper, doesn't gasp.
"Willing souls are hard to come by," he muses, stroking her head.
Her flesh is still warm, by her breathing is laboured. But she doesn't struggle, doesn't try. Slowly, her features relax, as if going into a trance. She is saving her strength for one last thing.
Already the darkness comes slithering to her side, blurring the edges of her mind, ebbing her life force away. One last thing she must do, before she gives herself over. Only after this, can there be sweet surrender.
A breathe of cold air passes blood-drained lips, air from dying lungs, and a final exertion of will to tilt the corners in a grateful smile.
"I know, child," he mummers, "I know."
Then, before her, opens a dream of blood and magic, of paper streamers and pale blossoms scattered by bending trees. Beyond this, she cannot see. Only black, pitch black, a void. Then, all at once, she is in the dream, and the dream, in her. She walks, a winding path, stone by stone appear under her feet. When the path ends, she looks up.
There is a tree. One tree, in the middle of the gale, standing straight and tall, and in it, she sees a fire glowing, beckoning her with it's warmth. A fire in the heart of the tree, or is the tree on fire? It doesn't matter much.
She steps in to it.
The spring colours dance wildly, dancing in front of eyes that will never again see. Wind cries, echoing through the spaces in her heart.
"So passes another."
The old house stands still.