Happy Equinox, lovies! For those of you in the northern hemisphere, we are now transitioning into autumn, a time that has always spoken deeply in my heart. This short little story is my love letter to autumn. It will post daily, and is fully written, so make sure you have your notifications turned on!
Thank you to Jill and Mel for their excellent help prereading and beta'ing.
Without further ado, I bid you a warm welcome to the home of the coffin maker and his wife.
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He smelled of pinewood and resin when he worked. The dusty scent of sawdust clung to his skin and permeated the air around him. It was a safe, warm aroma—the smell of a hard day's work, the indication of laboring with love. When he wasn't working, he smelled of spiced apples and bright honey wine. The touch of sweetness was enough to warm the soul whenever anyone came near him.
She smelled of fresh-baked bread and herbs from her garden. She smelled of home, and the comforts and security found in four walls. She smelled of peace and contentment, and all who came near her got the sense of the life she created in their cottage. Whenever they were needed at the church, she would gently apply lavender oil to the sensitive skin behind her ears and on her wrists. The oil distilling in her would calm the air around her, and all she brought into her embrace would sag in relief at her touch.
On rare days, when he was able to shirk his work, he would take her into their bed until the room smelled of nothing but them: dark and rich and bright and warm. This was what life in the coffin maker's cottage smelled like.
His name was Edward, and he'd learned his trade from his father who had learned it from his father before him.
There will always be a need for a coffin maker, so long as the Good Lord keeps us from Eden.
Edward's coffins were beautiful, shaped and carved with precision and love. He devoted himself to his work, taking great care that each coffin was just so.
Because of his utter devotion, his coffins were known far and wide, and princes and paupers had all come to him, seeking his services.
He never turned anyone down.
The Lord takes us all, in the end, and it is the right of every man, woman, and child to have a safe place for their eternal rest.
Her name was Bella, and she had been married to the coffin maker for several years now, though to those who knew them, it seemed much longer. Bella and Edward always were. Since the days of their childhood, they had grown around each other, like intertwining vines, creating a single, beautiful plant. No force on the earth could part them; together they were a single whole.
She was a good wife, beautiful and knowledgeable. Her hands were calloused and strong, though her touch was often gentle. She had a way about her, a glint in her eyes that belied her true intelligence. She took to tending their home with great passion and commitment, but in his heart, the coffin maker knew she was meant for more.
In a fit of uncertainty and despair, he had once asked her why she had settled for this life with him when she could have been so much more.
She had wound him in her arms, held his tear-stained face to her chest, and brushed her fingers through his hair.
Our love is more than I could ever become on my own, she had whispered. Any life without you is no life for me.
She had a strong mind and a soft heart, and when she looked upon her husband, her infinite love was palpable.
They lived on the edge of the village, where they had space for a large garden which she tended with great devotion. He wanted to give her the world; she only wanted a garden.
His workshop was a small building set beside her garden, and from there, he'd watch the satisfaction on her face as she worked the earth.
They lived a simple life, but one that was wholly and completely their own, and in that, they were both content.
What more could they need than each other and a place to rest their heads at night, side by side?
Never had two souls been better suited than the coffin maker and his wife.