To the Waters and the Wild

You had a heart made of stone, the white wash had all worn off, and all that was left was grey uneven rock. You dreamt of the sea, of drowning mostly and those cold eyes like coal. You said they always looked down at you. You'd come into my room, shivering and sit down by the fire in an old chair that smelt of dried lavender. You would often play with the frays of your sleeves, and stare into the fire for what seemed like forever. And no matter how many cups of tea I made for you, you always looked cold. 

Every so often you would tell me tales, stories of old and long ago. When you spoke those words, sometimes in riddle form, you looked as though you belonged inside them. I never could help thinking you came out of a book or a legend or the mists themselves. Carried on the north wind's back from foreign soils and then out of the forests. Your myths had traveled far, over mountains tall and valley deep, in the packs of journeying bards and musicians, in the pockets of gypsies, and in the gleaming eyes of children. Your stories had crossed many wander's lonely paths and had somehow made their way to me.

The days passed until it was leaving day, a day when the winds beat on the window panes so hard that they rattled, a day when the door burst open and the fire was puffed out. The day when you finally left. I wondered if you would ever come back, bringing your stories of knights and castles and planting a seed for a tree of stories in my heart. The son of the north wind with a heart of stone for all those he left behind. 

But you didn't.