Darien's Cottage
Thorns and barbed wire fade into dry dead branches. Trees are thick and there doesn’t appear to be a path, yet the man in the hat walks with purpose and is unhindered by the barrier.
The smell of hearthfire permeates the grey scarf around the lower half of his face and he freezes.
Motionless he waits, eyes alert, watching, listening.
He’s early.
He waits patiently until he hears the faint sounds of the door closing and the chuckling of the diminutive hobs as they revel in their reward. Soon the faint scent of cheap vanilla cigars mixes with that of the firewood and the scuttling of the hobs trails off into another part of the Hedge.
Confident that he can now return to a clean, warm Hollow, the man in the hat continues forward, dead branches parting for him, recognizing his influence on the area, deferentially accepting his connection to it and it to him.
He pauses again, this time at the edge of a clearing. When he left, it was clear and the small cottage that butted up against a rocky mountain seemed overrun with dead leaves and dry grass.
An obfuscated smile comes to the man as he feels the grey chill in the air, the dark cloud-filled sky and the sense of precipitation, heavy in the air.
A small pillar of smoke rises from the chimney, a cord of cut firewood stacked neatly alongside the cottage and the man in the hat looks up towards the clouds as the first of the flakes greets him.
It falls with a slowness that weighs heavy on the soul and inspires a sense of sorrow and loss. With it come others, few at first, but increasing quickly until the cottage is nearly hidden behind a curtain of raining white.
The man stands, allowing the snow to cover him, hide him from the world outside and for a moment that lasts hours he communes with his Season. He embraces the sorrow that brought him here, yet hides it behind the truthful façade of duty and compassion towards those of the freehold just as the snowfall hides his true form beneath a velvety coat of pure white.
He is home.
The snow shakes off of him in a burst as he moves, suddenly but not rushed towards the door, his boots making tracks in the snow that somehow vanish the moment after he makes them.
The door to the cottage is not locked to him and as he enters, the warm glow of the fire greets him.
He sheds his coat, hat and scarf and hangs them on the rack by the door. He stands, taking in the interior of the cottage.
It is small, comfortable, and dark, as if in perpetual twilight with the snow falling heavy outside now, coating everything in a blanket of white. There is a small pile of firewood next to the hearth and next to that, his old reclining chair positioned so that it has a commanding view of the small courtyard outside the frosty window.
The kitchen and dining area has been recently cleaned however the faint smell of aged cottage still lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of burning firewood.
A smile crosses the perfect face of the man as his eyes fall upon the one commodity that he requested. His cappuccino machine is there, on the counter, with a fresh supply of ground espresso, sugar and creamer. He begins at once to create his staple drink as his thoughts race about the work that needs to be done.
“Fortification first, then work” he mutters aloud to no one, breaking the silence that hung over the Hollow since his arrival. The firewood pops in approval.
Soon the man is sitting in his chair, sipping his cappuccino, next to the fire watching the snow fall in thick, heavy flakes. His thoughts are of preparation and expansion. He will need more Hobs, more Goblins. He needs to learn about this Hedge and those that dwell in and around it. He needs more sets of eyes and ears. The mantle of responsibility weighs on his shoulders, an equal counterpart to the investment his Season has made within him. He nods in agreement and acknowledges the need, and reconciles himself to work on that in due time. “First things first, however” he thinks and speaks aloud, a testament to himself and his Season.
This is home. It is both a statement and fact, and it reverberates through the man’s very being.
It is time to get to work. It, too, is both a statement and fact that is echoed within the man.
“I am Darien Cole and this Hollow is claimed for Winter. It shall be used in a fashion in accordance with our Law and belief. It shall be a haven for our Court, and it shall serve as an emergency shelter for the freehold, and I am its Master.”
The statement, made aloud and with conviction, causes ripples through the air and a peal of thunder resounds from the sky and into the mountain. At once the thoughts in Darien’s mind begin to mingle with the part of him that is of this realm, his connection to that which is not human burns with a cold white light and spreads out throughout the small Hollow.
Caves that were formed in his mind’s eye begin to be thought about by the Mountain. Escape tunnels and hidden cache rooms and vaults begin to be contemplated by the terrain. Secret doors and hidden compartments and veiled rooms begin to be ruminated by the cottage.
Hours pass, the snow falls and Darien concentrates on making these changes a Hedge reality. Through Will and Wyrd it will be done.
“Through Will and Wyrd it will be done” exclaims Darien and he feels his very nature being tugged and pulled. He presses out, down, and away with his mind as the beginnings of his plans are formed.
Later, the exhausted Darien rests in his recliner, the light of the fire slowly dying, the eternal twilight of the snowy outside a corporeal manifestation of the Sorrow within his soul and as his eyes close, his dreams drift to the ethereal and fleeting memories of his Keeper, her heavenly beauty and exquisite touch bringing unearthly pleasure mixed with incapacitating pain…