Mornings

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

4.45 am.

Sunrise soon.

God, I feel sick; staggering out of bed, falling over my shoes as they sit by the window. I want to sleep, I want to dream, and the pillow in my bed still smells of the lavender oil I was playing with last night.

But I have promises to keep, and soon the sunrise will be here.

Candles. There are candles and incense, wrapped up in silk in a carved wooden box beside the altar. Fumbling in the dark, I break a stick of incense and swear quietly to myself.

Why can't I go back to bed?

Back to bed with someone else; now that's the ideal. Goodness, but I'd not have said that six months ago. I'm changing - I've changed. That thought lingers through the snap of the match and the first rush of the candle's light. When did I become someone who wanted to wake up to the feel of another's arms around me? When did I become someone who yearned for the warmth of skin against mine; an arm thrown across my waist; the sleepy companionship of the early morn.

But not this morning.

Candles.

Eight this morning. Eight candles, then eight sticks of incense, and five different drops of oil, laid out in tiny dishes above tea lights so the scent rises up. Each is a different colour and a different composition. Each is a different scent. First, there is Heart of Oak, who's colour is red and whose scent is dark chocolate, red wine, tobacco, balsam and honey. To him go the prayers of protection, of gratitude for the security given already. He is the God of the House, the God of the Family, the God of the little world that Jonathon and I have made here, and I love him for that. His icon sits at the centre of my altar and for a moment I feel him, strong and solid as ever, welcoming my prayers in the early morning.

Next there is Warm Heart on a Dark Night who's colour is the pale blue at the very heart of a fire and whose scent is coconut milk and butter. She is comfort and she is warmth and it is to her that I offer thanks for the affection I've felt, for the softness that comes when you care about someone. I give her my list of names; a name for every person who matters and I feel her approval touch me and a flicker of flame rises up in the fireplace where none should be.

Next there is Under the Stairs, who's colour is black, and whose scent is wax and plum. He keeps my secrets, and I whisper them to him by rote every single morning. Then comes Voice in the Dark, for who I light a second dark candle, and heat up drops of oil that smell of yew and graveyard dirt, of which I sprinkle a pinch in as well. He hears my fears, every one, and eats them clean so there's nothing left and for a moment I am strong.

5.30 am.

The sun is up.

I stretch for a few moments now because I'm aching, crouched over the altar, still stiff from sleep. Not done yet. Not done, Solace. Back you go.

There's chiminage to make; candles and offerings to the Gods who have helped, and, of course, a pure white candle lit before a mirror for Eyes of Annwn who has always watched over me. Sage, patchouli and frankincense is his scent, and I breathe it in until I get giddy and light headed, while I thank him over and over again because without him I don't know that my life would have meaning at all.

Thank you.

6 am.

My bedroom fills with light.

It's late. Too late. But I've one more offering to make.

Outside, around the house, there is Heart of the Forest. He watches. He waits. He hungers. He feeds. He doesn't care for candles, although I light him one anyway; one that is a murky colour, and burns with an oily flame for I've mixed the candlewax with blood. He has no scent other than a little meat and a little of my own blood, drawn from my finger and then burnt in a charred black iron dish. I don't thank him. Thanks would be an insult. Instead, I beg for his forgiveness and promise him that his prey will come soon. Soon he will hunt again. Soon he will feed. Soon he will devour.

My Gods.

This isn't the way that they do it here. Is it heresy, just for me to make these offerings? Probably. It gives them strength, it gives them power, more than they need. And I'm not one of the People. I've not changed. I'm just a woman. It's wrong, I think, for me to live this way, but I don't know any other.

Still, for almost the first time I feel a tinge of guilt which is a strange sensation. When did the views of the Urdaga - the bastard mongrel offspring of the mad bitch Luna - start to matter so much to me?

The thought lingers as I slide back into bed. I check my phone for messages - and when did I become someone who did that - and the thought comes back to me stronger than before.

Who am I?

I used to know.

Solace Gascoyne-Cecil, Purest of the Pure, Perfect Trophy, Perfect Prize. Favoured by the Gods, possessed only by a Hero.

Maybe a few bits of that might still be true. But for the most part, I am done. My treasure is well and truly spent and what is left...

There's a silence in my room, but I swear I hear a voice whispering from somewhere. Maybe it's one of my Gods. Maybe it isn't. I don't know. What I do know is that I hear it, clear as day.

What is left is what is real.

In the fireside, a fire gleams for a moment where none existed before and I feel comforted. The wooden door is thick and solid and one of the whorls in the wood twists into a smile. I am safe here. The darkness thickens in the corner and I know that my Gods are here, wrapped round me as tight as a blanket.

No, I won't regret this. Not one single bit.

"Thank you," I say again. And then I go to sleep.