The Tale Teller

Chapter 29

 The wind whistled like a man staggering home with a belly full of ale. It was low before it was high, sweeping through the village streets and under cottage doors. Vaun had placed an old coat by the gap between wood and earth floor, blocking the breeze from upsetting his rather impressive fire. It was a cold night and he was glad for the warmth the flames and his new home brought him.

It had been six days since he had arrived in Brinevalleybell. Once rested that first night in Branoff's home, they had got straight in to mending what would become Vaun's own as soon as the morning sun had risen.

First they had torn the old thatch from the roof, brushing down the exposed beams and checking them for woodworm and rot before replacing the roof with a more favoured method of packed soil and tufts of grass. It would insulate the roof how the straw could not, and although it was a much longer process, it would stand the test of time for those coming after Vaun left.

Already a young man had been eyeing up the cottage, offering his services to Vaun and Branoff in aid of fixing it up. His name was Pol, and from how he looked at the sweetling on his arm that would bring him meals in a wicker basket, it was clear he'd be asking her to be his wife before summer bloomed. They seemed a sweet couple, and Vaun would be more than happy to leave this cottage knowing those after him would care for it and maintain the work he had done to make it habitable.

The door that had been hanging off its hinges had been fixed, the weeds cut down and the windows scrubbed until a maiden could very well do her hair in one's reflection. The inside had been cleaned and modestly furnished, the hearth stacked with logs and coals to create a fire strong enough to warm every corner. There was a sensation in the pit of Vaun's stomach he could only describe as pride for the home created. He would be lying to say there wasn't a happiness there too.

A evening past he had moved in, and he had enjoyed every moment of life since. He had woken this morning with the sun, and said goodbye to the outside world and all in it as it had set and brought the frost with it. A scurry of snow had been forwarned by the elders in the village, and all around them had nodded with a sureness that their wisdom was never wrong. From where he sat, Vaun could see it falling outside the window, the sill already full and climbing the width of a hand wide. It was cold enough to continue through the night and to lay on the frost-dry ground. Tomorrow would be a day of slow moving, but a part of Vaun didn't mind. This felt like a fresh start for him, and he welcomed all that came with it.

His past wasn't behind him though, not when he sat by his newfound fireplace with memories on his mind. It was too cold to gather with the villagers in the only inn and tavern, or to visit a neighbour for an evening of chatter. He was alone tonight, but the peace was much needed. When a man was used to solitude, the company sometimes became a little too much.

Sat in silence, he thought of his boyhood, of his days in Cragbarrow when a little older, and the road when fully grown. A log was placed on the fire, the embers poked, and Vaun's mind swept back to the last time he was on the flatlands.

He had picked up his pen and parchment three times today with the intentions of writing to Celise. He had promised her, and when moved into the cottage and settling into village life, it was the perfect time to write with something to say. The words refused to come though.

It's not that he didn't want to write, he did, and even the stress over his letters was pushed aside by the desire to, but Vaun couldn't seem to find the words to say. He wanted to ask after her health, to warn her for the hundredth time to rid herself of the whores and the danger they brought to her and the inn. He wanted to tell her how he missed the sound of her voice and the warmth of her skin against his own. He missed her kiss, her touch, her heart. If The Father and The Mother could hear his prayers they knew he missed Celise like a starved man missed the bread upon his tongue. Was it wise to tell her so though?