Chapter 6: Tea in the House of First Light

The Awakener’s dwelling was less a house and more a cradle of dawn.

The willow-woven walls glowed softly, even in shadow, their branches threaded with dried blossoms, bits of sun-bleached stone, and feathers the Awakener had gathered during her wanderings. A round window faced east, its frame carved with spirals in the shape of breath.

Inside, the air was warm with spice and something sweet — a scent that made the Deep Listener’s shoulders drop in relief.

“It’s been too long,” the Awakener said, her voice a warm ribbon as she ladled water from a clay urn into a small copper kettle. “Sit. Rest your bones.”

The Deep Listener lowered herself onto a cushion shaped from woven reeds and soft pelts. The floor beneath her was smooth packed earth, warm as if it had been sun-kissed moments ago.

“You felt the hum before I arrived,” the Deep Listener said gently.

“Oh yes.” The Awakener set the kettle over a small hearth of glowing coals. “I just didn’t trust it.” She paused, turning. “Until now.”

The Deep Listener nodded, fingers folding over themselves.
“We must speak plainly,” she said.
“There is no time for softening.”

The Awakener knelt beside her, the firelight flickering across her cheeks. Her hands moved swiftly, intuitively: crushing dried berries between her palms, slicing thin curls of bark, dropping fragrant seeds into a carved wooden bowl.

As she worked, she spoke.

“It began with a dream. A great loom surrounded by shadow. Threads slipping loose. Colors bleeding into gray. But every time I reached for the loom, my hands…” She held them up — trembling, just barely. “My hands passed through air.”

The Deep Listener’s eyes softened.
“The same feeling touched me. I lost a memory. A precious one.”

The Awakener set the bowl aside and poured the crushed mixture into the steaming kettle. A soft hiss rose, carrying the scent of morning after rain.

“What did you lose?” she asked.

“A gathering. A night of story. A boy with a carved bird.”
The Deep Listener’s voice broke.
“I could see it, then I couldn’t.”

The Awakener reached out and clasped her hand.
“Then it’s beginning faster than we feared.”

The Deep Listener nodded, throat tight.
“Yes. The world is thinning. Not dying — but drifting. As if the stories that once held us are slipping from the collective tongue.”

The Awakener stirred the kettle slowly.
“We always knew this day could come.”

“We did.”
“But we hoped…”
The Deep Listener let the unfinished sentence tremble into silence.

Steam curled upward, weaving into shapes that looked, for a breath, like birds in flight.

The Awakener poured tea into two small, mismatched cups — one carved from antler, the other shaped from clay so old the fingerprints of its maker still lingered.

“Drink,” she said softly. “It will steady us.”

The Deep Listener lifted the cup to her lips.
The tea tasted of warmth, dawn, and something bittersweet —
like remembering a joy you didn’t realize you’d misplaced.

They drank in silence for a moment, letting the forest sigh around them.

Then the Awakener leaned forward, her eyes bright and troubled.
“I’ve been feeling something else,” she said.
“A stirring I cannot name.”

The Deep Listener’s breath caught.
“A warning?”

“No.”
The Awakener shook her head slowly.
“Not a warning. A… summoning.”

A long pause.

“To what?” the Deep Listener asked.

The Awakener met her gaze, and in her eyes flickered the barest hint of gold.

“To gather,” she whispered.
“To remember who we were together.
Before the naming.
Before the weave chose us.”

The Deep Listener felt the truth of it flood her like warmth.
Yes.
Yes, that was the next step.

“The others,” she murmured. “We must find them.”

The Awakener nodded, setting her cup aside.
“They will feel the hum soon. Especially the Midwife of Story — she always felt the thresholds first.”

The Deep Listener’s eyes softened with memory.
“She will not ignore the call.”

“And the Truth Teller?” the Awakener asked quietly.

A wry, loving smile ghosted across the Deep Listener’s mouth.
“She’ll come when she’s ready. But she will come.”

The Awakener exhaled, relieved.
“And the Luminary?”

They both fell silent.

For a moment, even the hearth seemed to still.

The Deep Listener’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“If her flame is flickering…”
She swallowed.
“…we must reach her soon.”

The Awakener bowed her head.
“Then our path is clear.”

A breeze swept through the open window, carrying the scent of something unmistakable:

Light trying to remember itself.

The two women looked at each other, the air humming between them.

“It is time,” the Awakener said.
“To seek the others.”

“And time,” the Deep Listener added,
“to remember the beginning.”