A Piece of History: Left Unspoken…
"Oh, Jonas these really are too much," Dia said with a soft smile as she leaned over the porch railing to take the tray of seedlings from the death mage. Jonas Foster shrugged as he returned to his car, pulling out a bag of mulch and heading to the porch once more.
"Just thought these might help," he said as he set the bag by the porch steps. Running a hand through his curly black hair, the mage looked at the empty flower beds lining the front wall of Dia’s small house. "They aren’t the climbing type. I got those for the south wall."
The Gift of the Dreaming smiled sweetly at him, and it seemed like the late February morning turned into high noon in July. Her crystalline eyes lit with vibrant yellow, blue-violet and rose pink as she walked to the end of the porch and peered at the empty trellis fastened to the house. "I think they’ll look lovely. But Jonas…you really didn’t have to do this. I appreciate it very, very much, but it’s too much for you to do when you’r-"
"I’m the one that killed the other roses," the death mage said, cutting her off as he climbed the porch steps. "So it’s only right that I replace them." It had been a rather unpleasant day, that. He hadn’t tried, but…after so many years, death followed his touch. Dia hadn’t cried when she’d seen the withered roses, but he had read the pain in her eyes. It was the only thing he could think to do: provide new life. He couldn’t make things grow…life didn’t respond to his hand in the same way. He could, however, bring her a new start to her garden. Now that he saw the expression on her face, read her eyes, he knew it had been the right thing to do. There was a moment of silence in which she occupied herself with the cuttings, stroking leaves and murmuring soft words to the plants, and Jonas coughed softly and watched the grass wave about his feet. It was one of those moments where meaning becomes evident without words, and silence stretches out to fill the gaps where words would clatter together and make only noise.
"Would you like some tea? Oh, I’m sorry. Coffee, of course," Dia said with a soft laugh at her own forgetfulness. "You prefer coffee. I do have some of that Columbian roast you like." Her pale hands waved about like dazed butterflies as she walked to the edge of the porch, taking a moment to check on her hanging ferns. Jonas was already on the porch, avoiding the plants by habit, and opened the front door for her.
"Coffee’s good. I’ll help you with the mulch later," he said, in that tone of voice that had become customary when speaking to her. It was odd, really, when he thought about it: how gentle he’d become with her. Perhaps it was just knowing that her presence could soothe all his hurts, or that an unkind word would wound her for days…but it couldn’t be that, could it? Why, after all, should he care about what hurt her?
"Oh, that’s all right," Dia said as she patted his hand softly, slipping into the house with a rustle of her pearlescent feathers. "It won’t take long, and Bertram promised to stop by this afternoon. He can help me lift things."
The sound of the troll’s name made Jonas’s eyes harden faintly as he shut the door before following her through the warm, homey order of her living room. There was still a…tense ‘understanding’ between the two men that didn’t extend beyond stiff courtesy upon meeting. Afternoon…Jonas glanced at the burled walnut clock hanging on the wall, noted the time and continued into the kitchen.
In this warm, pale yellow and white room, it was difficult to think of the world in terms of darkness or death. Even for Jonas, everything felt…brighter here. The pale oak table with attendant chairs was inviting, as were the overstuffed light blue armchairs in the small, windowed nook where he knew Dia preferred to take her morning tea. It was into the kitchen proper, with the pitchers of sunflowers, warm yellow paint and smells of freshly baked cookies that he walked. Dia, occupied with the blue tin coffee pot, gave him that faint, shy smile as she moved around him to the stove. Without being told, Jonas headed to the cupboards and pulled down a pair of mugs. What fell was the somehow awkward, yet comfortable silence of two people who have spent a considerable amount of time together, working together without needing direction or words. Coffee was made for him, tea for her…and within a quarter of an hour, both of them were comfortably situated in the nook. There was merely the usual small talk, talk that had progressed, as often happens in the more common ground of dating, from general topics regarding weather and politics, (less dangerous ground than children…than life…than death…), to the specific topics of shared experience. They spoke of Hearth Home, of the garden, of Dia’s tempermental heater which Jonas had yet to attend to. They spoke, as people often do, in soft tones, with little eye contact, but much glancing, one toward the other. They spoke as lovers do, when something hangs in the air that neither wishes to draw down.
Time passed, as it had begun to do when they shared the minutes that flew, swiftly. Jonas finished a second cup of coffee, and refused a third, as he always did. Dia never pressed him, never urged him to stay longer. In her eyes was the timeless wisdom of a patient woman, and the unique understanding that was all the Gift of the Dreaming. Jonas’s eyes…were inscrutable, the dark depths providing nothing for the observer save a dull glitter deep within. As he took his leave of her, his hand lingered on the back of her chair. As she washed the few dishes created by their hours together, she put her lips lightly to the rim of his mug.
And so it goes…and still, it hangs in the air. And still…neither reaches above to draw it down.
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