da capo (d.c.)

A most fascinating thing is that hawthorn (and other herbs like motherwort) is said to strengthen both the physical and the emotional heart. It is used to treat heartache and encourage the opening of the heart, bringing courage to vulnerability. The hawthorn is the open hearted warrior.

Berries can be made into tinctures and medicine, but also jams, sauces and liquors like 산사춘.

The thorns of the hawthorn tree are important to mention here: the tree is in the rose family, but instead of having many, tiny little thorns that make it impossible to handle, it has spaced out, fairly dramatic-looking thorns. This is said to protect it not against the small troubles, like deer who can easily nibble the fruits and dodge the thorns, but (literally) giant problems. This adds another dimension to the herb: not only is it a heart opener + strengthener, it is also a protector. In thorn magick, it is said that a single thorn used in the preparation of a spell/tea/tincture can provide this.

Vin is the person for whom her heart feels safe enough to open to after enduring so much ache and destruction. He's the person she knows she'll be safe with, no matter what. Who'll nurture and value and respect the seasons. Honour the blood. Leave the taste of berries on her tongue.

Bonus reference: the shrike is a carnivorous bird known to impale its prey on the thorns of trees (yes, hawthorns too and yes, this pertains to Vin's... creative methods of ending his enemies). Hozier has a beautiful song named after the bird.

It's not a yes or a no, it's the teasing edge of a possibility. She toys with the leash. Figurative, of course, his neck too fair, too pristine, too glorious for anything but her hands and her kisses to adorn it.

His hand on her knee. Thumb tracing the rounded cap, always some shade of purple, matching the floral detail of her dress. She reclines, adjusts her gaze. There's a fire threatening to consume her whole, consume them both; her mouth sticky sweet and dripping jealously.

Vincenzo hovers, one hand gripping the arm of the chair, the other inching down her shin. She keeps one foot propped up on the edge of the seat and sits in her own pool of pettiness, alone in the balcony with plums and wine and literature. She knows he would never sting her like that, knows it was just a work lunch. What was it, Chayoung has a new perfume, was she testing it in the office?

He's worrying again. Cogs turning, jaw grinding, the situation is slipping out of his grasp and he hates it, doesn't he? Darlene feels as though the armrest might snap under his thunder.

"You're being cruel."

She is, she is, and the plum is set aside and she's licking her fingers clean and her leg sways to the right so the dress slips, drapes around her hips, white cotton with lace edge shows and she wears it so well.

A believer on his knees.

Darlene has both feet on the floor now, knees spread to accommodate him and his palms dragging along the expanse of his lover's thighs. She leans forward to take Vincenzo's face in her hands. Takes in the sculpted planes of his face, the plush curve of his upper lip, specks of sunset dusting his eyelids. What a vision, what a dream. Presses a kiss to his brow bone. His cheek, the corner of his mouth.

The effort to keep the slightest bit of composure when his thumbs slip under the hem of her underwear is there, but her body betrays her quicker than she can spell her own name.

Some things should be made clear.

Look at me.

There’s fresh soup on the stove.

The water in the bath runs milky, sweet, vanilla and chamomile and oat, nourish and soothe, piece her lover back together. Acrid, acid white, the smell of the hospital clings to his clothes.

“How’s she doing?”

He nods curtly, lips pressed into a line; shoulders still too tense, heart still in battle. Dar won’t have it.

She wears that sage green silk combination, flowy sleeves fluttering about as she helps him undress. Reverent, mindful, with the touch of a lover and a believer and a friend. His body is a house of worship not only when she takes him in her mouth, not only when he crumbles and strains from gripping a handful of that dark mane of hair and spilling down her throat— no, not tonight, tonight the offerings change.

Soup to warm his soul and sorrow. Medicinal bath to soothe his heart. The lap of his woman for his mind to rest.

Taking care of you is taking care of me.

“You didn’t have to go through this trouble.” So good to me, cara.

It’s her turn to reply with quietude, with hands that hold his and lead him to a candlelit tub, golden hues and flickering licks of shadows, with fingers that diligently wash his hair and shoulders and wrists and legs. When she finishes, Darlene sits and leans over the side of the bath, hand still holding his, chin on her wrist. Vincenzo scoots closer, touches his forehead to hers. Silence is just as important as the words that bracket it.

( “Trouble would be lying awake thinking you needed me and I wasn’t there.” )

“I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Space that is offered, space that is needed. Had he not spent the day looking after anyone but himself?

He comes out in his nightwear, hair dripping on his shoulders, shading his eyes and nose and dripping on her cheeks too, when he claims a rightful kiss. Steadying grip on her hips, following her close behind.

“How was your day?”

Dar prepares a tray. The answer comes in fragments and hums only because her attention is in her fingertips, Should we eat in the living room, should we watch Garden Designs?

Think of the most innocuous tv, something to numb the mind. Set it up, minimal volume, soft jazz to coat the atmosphere. It’s just the low lights and incense tonight. It’s just Dar watching to make sure he eats, pressing her lips to his temple, murmuring to convince them both: “It’s going to be okay. I got you.”

And the bed is merciful, charcoal sheets and their legs so entangled it might look like they’re growing from the same pot. The bed is his head on her chest today; it’s the silence when he holds her so tight she feels the squeeze in her lungs; it’s her fingers carding through Vin’s hair with the tenderness only poetry or love can harbour, one of, or both. Both, certainly.

Darlene wants to say,