A slight breeze, dancing along my arms, stirred me from a deep sleep. I opened my eyes and saw the familiar raftering of my house, the rough-hewn beams a comforting constant.
Iwas in my own bed. But how? The last thing I remembered was the tranquil warmth of the tea and the pleasant lethargy spreading through my limbs.
A knot of confusion, tight and uncomfortable, began to unravel in my chest.
I pushed aside the dark, linen covers, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin, and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
As I padded towards the kitchen, the familiar sounds began to reach me: the gentle rattle of pots and pans, along with the cheerful pop of grease heating in a pan, and the robust, earthy scent of Hearty Root-Stew mingling with the sweet, bright aroma of Sun-Fruit fritters wafting through the air.
Oakley. A wave of profound relief washed over me, so potent it almost made my knees buckle, dispelling some of the lingering fogginess from the Dream-leaf's powerful sedative effect.
"Mornin', sunshine! You slept terribly late, did you at least sleep well?" Oakley smiled, stirring what looked to be fritter batter, her iridescent scales catching the gentle morning light filtering through the window, shimmering with a soft, internal hydro-luminescence.
Her presence, a warm, bright counterpoint to my own lingering sluggishness, was already a familiar comfort in my own home, a steadfast beacon of cheerful energy.
I yawned, stretching my arms above my head until my shoulders popped, and scratching the back of my head, trying to dislodge the remaining grogginess from my brain.
"How did I get in my bed?" I pushed off the sturdy kitchen beam I'd been leaning against and sat down at the table, resting my head on its cool, smooth surface, still struggling to piece together the fragmented memories of the night.
"The Dream-leaf knocked you out cold! I was ready for Moonpetal pastries and you were already drooling on the rug," she teased, a playful glint in her sapphire eyes. "I woke up close to dawn and saw you slumped up against the side of the porch, looking all forlorn.
"You were shivering," she shrugged nonchalantly, her gaze focused on setting the table for breakfast, laying out earthenware plates and carved wooden mugs. "I had to drag you in and wrap you in a blanket so you wouldn't get sick."
I scoffed, sitting up straight and adjusting the lace on the collar of my dark, comfortable nightgown. "I don't 'drool,' thank you. And you 'dragged' me?"
"Well, you're not exactly light, are you?" she retorted, holding back a laugh. "You're all... dense and grounded, like a tree trunk. It was like moving a rock! My scales were a mess from the friction." She gestured to a small patch of her forearm where the scales, usually a perfect, clean sheen, were slightly scuffed.
"Totally worth it, though. I wasn't going to let my grumpy land-dweller freeze."
I watched her, a small, genuine smile playing on my lips. My plate, I noticed, resembled a fritter face with Sun-Fruit eyes and a Root-Stew smile.
It never ceased to amaze me how truly innocent and pure she was, how she found joy in such simple, wholesome creations.
It was a stark contrast to my own more cynical nature, a jarring juxtaposition of light and shadow.
"You know, if you're going to use me as a test subject for new teas, you should at least learn how to cook without leaving a trail of batter across the floor." I pointed to a small, sticky puddle near her feet.
She glanced down, a flash of mock embarrassment on her face. "Oh! Well, you try cooking in a tiny kitchen, Morwen. It's hard work." She set her own plate on the table and sat down.
"And you call me clumsy." I took a long sip of the warm Glow-Berry Infusion she'd set next to my plate, the sweet, earthy tang of the berries a welcome jolt of energy.
The two of us, a creature of the earth and a creature of the sea, the last vestiges of fear and confusion dissolving in the warmth of the morning sun and our playful, friendship.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice a bit flat from the lingering disorientation of the dream-leaf. "I think the tea was a bit too strong. I had the weirdest... thing..." I trailed off, a hint of embarrassment in my tone. "I was a very well-behaved goat in a flower garden, and then I kept trying to eat a rosebush but it was made of lace, and I fell and felt this awful cramp..." I suppressed a groan. The memory was too vivid, too embarrassing to admit aloud. "And then I just remember a dull ache."
The sensation was likely just from falling asleep on the porch, but the dream-leaf made it feel so strangely significant.
"Huh... could it be that you just had a weird dream? And the rosebush could just be your brain filling in gaps and whatnot?" she offered, her head tilted, trying to sound logical. Her sapphire eyes held a flicker of amusement, betraying her understanding that this was simply the tea working its magic in an unusual way.
"I don't know," I mumbled, still a bit foggy. "Could my mind really conjure such silly nonsense? The feeling of being pursued by a group of very angry bees with tiny crowns was just so... visceral." My tone was deadpan, a perfect contrast to the ridiculousness of the dream.
"Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Be a shame to waste such gourmet cooking." I mocked, placing one of my hands on my chest and the other across my brow, feigning distress.
It was easier to joke than to dwell on the unsettling possibility of my own subconscious's strange inner workings, to distract her from the deeper questions of my bizarre mind.
"Oh, can it, you Billy goat! You're just upset I can cook better than you!" she scoffed, her laughter bright and unfettered, a joyous sound that momentarily pushed back my encroaching embarrassment.
"And most land dwellers," I mumbled past a bite of Root-Stew, enjoying the familiar banter, the normalcy of it a welcome balm.
"And you know it, horn-head! Don't be jealous, it causes wrinkles," she cackled, finishing her plate and walking off.
Always deflecting, always moving forward. Guess it's my turn to do the dishes.
The mundane task grounded me, the rhythmic motion of scrubbing plates slowly chipping away at the remnants of my anxiety, a small, steady defiance against the odd lingering strangeness of the night.