Pierre stares out into the rain as another gold-seeking adventurer shuts the door. He watches the clouds, the water streaming down the window, remembering another day, another storm. A storm so rough, so dangerous, he could not see what could be so important as to actually brave it. But there was one who stayed in the storm, simply because it was beautiful. This fragile, gentle, ephemeral creature, who looked as if one could cradle her with one arm, showed a fire he had never seen before. She saw the beauty in the water, the wind, the clouds, saw something there worth risking everything for.

 

When he opened the door that night, she was sodden to the bone, holding her arm to her side; yet she still bore the air of a queen. The light of the fire glinted off her feathers; her soaked dress hung off her thin body. As he hurried and ushered her to the fireside, he could not help but notice the smell of her feathers underneath the scents of rain and cold: a fragrance like crushed berries and clean canvas. Placing a blanket around her shoulder, making a mug of hot cider, he kept himself out of the way while she recuperated from her time in the storm. As she relaxed and took in the sturdy walls, smooth floor, cushioned couches, she asked who built such a comfortable cottage in the middle of the mountains. When Pierre remarked that he himself had refurbished his home, she looked around again and remarked, “You really did a beautiful job.”

 

“Well, it keeps out the frost and rain, and stays cool during the summer months”, he replied, waving his free hand in the air as he brought the mug over to the couch.

 

She looked at him, head tilted to one side. “Don't you see, though, how the walls feel like stone towers, defending against all intruders,” she said, hands outstretched, ”while your furnishings exude the same quiet comfort as the tae'dae? These simple materials come together and form such a cozy composition, I could just relax here all my life.”

 

“Oh, I was just trying to make it liveable here. I wasn't searching for any aesthetic sensibility, or anything like that,” he responded, turning slightly away to look at the room again.

 

“Even if you weren't looking for it, you've clearly found it here. Rarely have I seen such a nice and kind-feeling place.” She looked at him, mug held in her uninjured hand.

 

“What is your home like?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, like a drop of rain out of a clear sky. He almost looked surprised at himself, though, luckily, Lydia was facing the fire. Recovering from his slight slip, he settled himself down in an arm chair as Lydia started to talk.

 

With the rain pounding against the windows and the logs crackling in the fireplace, the two shared their stories, her traveling the mountains and painting the skyscapes, his moving from Delport and striking out in the fur trade. They talked for hours, pushing and pulling each other with their careless banter, like two dancers endlessly circling upon the floor. However, even more than the rhythm of conversation, the serenity of the silence between this pair demonstrated their similar souls. As they sat together, watching embers slowly dim and feeling the call of sleep, they listened to the sound of the each others breathing, keeping time with the tapping of the rain and felt peace.

 

Slowly gathering up woven blankets and preparing the couch, Pierre made a place to sleep on the couch, allowing Lydia to sleep upon his bed. Lying down, eyes looking at the window pouring down the window, he found a happiness that he had never felt before. Far from the passion and lust and gossip of his hometown, this meeting lit a small candle of a flame, a chalice of light, turning everything to gold. As his breath flowed softly and evenly, he tentatively imagined what a life together could be. He could be the roots, the base upon which she could always land and rest. And she would be his branches, his pathway to the farthest reaches of the sky. Gathering precious furs, painting beautiful canvases, they would work side by side, sometimes in laughter, sometimes in silence, with the rest of the world whirling around them. Day after day, year after year, their love would bud and blossom and bloom...

 

The next morning, he saw her gathering her supplies and materials. Seeing that he was up, she thanked him for his hospitality and offered some gold in return for his bed and his fire. Taking her hand and folding her fingers around the gold, he insisted that she not pay him, for he already had everything he could want from her lovely company. He gave her compresses and a keg of cider to take on the road, each time almost confessing his feelings for her, yet stopped. Did she feel the same way? Why would she, a beautiful, aristocratic trill, want to love a grubby, poor human? These questions, that insecurity became a dam that held back his feelings of love. Thus, she went on her way, walking around the bend in the road and beyond his reach. He returned to his workshop, preparing furs for sale and tinkering with the leftover scraps. He thought of making a stuffed doll, maybe of a moose or an owl, something to lighten the heart.

 

Throwing himself into his work, he tried to forget the warm night he spent, and for a time he succeeded. Day in and day out, he made his living, hunting moose and other animals and then selling them at the market, all by himself. Then, news came from one of the adventurers that he frequently employed of a trill who followed her visions around the mountains, seeking the most beautiful sights. Almost unwilling to believe his ears, he set upon the idea of a plush lion. The ferocity of an animal unmatched, the pride in being the king, that would truly make a beautiful sight. And if he could somehow bring her back to his side, well, he did not want to hope too much.

 

Thus, he started to plan. He employed these adventurers, paying them for moose and lions while he drew up plans and gathered thread and stuffing. Working through the nights, he had almost finished his project, only lacking one last lion pelt to finally sew together the doll. So here he sat waiting, waiting for the ones who could bring his hope, his chance to finally meet his love once again. Hearing the door open once again, he looks up from his work as another one steps in from the rain, another step to warm his lonely days. Oh, if only it were her!