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The cool evening air wrapped itself around Raven, like a blanket of icicles. They stepped into the small bright café with an air of purpose they that they did not truly possess. As their tall platform boots hit the wooden floor, they shook the ice from their coat and just a little of the ink-dark ichor that clung to their soul after a tedious day of existence.
The ringing of the store bell cut cleanly through the chokingly warm atmosphere, and an aching in Raven’s head joined the many more that nestled, hidden in the cracks and crevices of their body waiting for the perfect time to appear. A laugh bubbled up deep in the depths of their lungs, soaked with the honey-sweet air, they knew not why.
A dark oak countertop stood in the centre of the room, or was it the centre, this place was so small, cosy and yet it seemed to stretch into an eternity. Perched upon the countertop was a beautiful coffee machine, almost alive in its copper brilliance, all miniscule filigree pipes and rising steam, Raven had never seen anything like it.
After what may have been an eternity, The Barista Appeared, it was nothing special, it’s arrival one minute there was nothing and then, in a second when Raven was slightly more engrossed in the delights of the coffee machine than before, a slight creak of wood
And
It
Was
There
The barista spoke, then in that quite place outside of the reality raven knew so well and when it did, it was a beautiful paradox. It’s voice crackled with a static that sung the songs of faraway stars and their burning hearts, the voids they would eventually become, yet at the same time it dripped with a honey so sweet it tempted to wash away what was left of Raven’s mind in its calming seas. This was something else. It’s words slipped from Raven’s memory as soon as they entered it, they managed to catch the just of what it was saying,
“A large dirty chai, please” they replied.
It was made clear that payment here was not conventional, Afterall the Fae folk are rarely ever conventional. There would be conversation, deals would be made, time spent but for now it was enough to sit and watch as the coffee was made. The machine put to work, a beautiful dance began, cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg harvested from plants that had only seconds ago been only water and soil and life, milk was poured from a jug, summoned with the flick of a wrist. Soon all the ingredients were brought together in an ancient clay mug placed below that shining machine to have that warm obsidian elixir flow freely from its pipes. And as it worked flowers began to sprout from the places where The Barista’s fingers brushed against that great oak bench until the drink was finished, this was its passion, what lit the fires deep in its soul.
It slid the coffee across the counter to Raven who delightedly took it in both hands and drank deep of it, they were immediately shocked at the warmth that flows into them with the first sip, it is like a tide washing away all of their troubles, if only for the time being they feel no longer the tiredness that has been seeping into their bones every day for the past few years, the pain that lives hiding in their bones and flesh is gone, they once again can hope.
The Barista watches, a kind smile blooms onto their face revealing teeth that are just a little too sharp as their eyes glint in anticipation. Not only do they enjoy the making, the act of creating something that helps people so, but they so too delight in the price, the conversation, the deals.
They talk for an eternity that does not pass outside the café, of many things, ancient knowledge spills from The Barista’s mouth hot and forbidden, and Raven Replies with stories of life as a human, both full of joy and horror, for that is the way of human life.
Eventually it came time for Raven to leave and return to the place they did not call home, but The Barista had one more question to ask, and one more answer to receive.
“Tell me, Little bird, may I have your name?” Its smile growing ever wider, splitting the flesh it had so carefully placed there to hide themselves, but Raven knew the truth and they did not trick the being they now trusted, and for how foolish they knew it to be, they answered.
The name they gave freely to the gentry sitting before them on a seat grown from the wood of the building in which they sat was in fact the name they had been given, though it was not their true name, it was something of the past, a weapon wielded against them by people to ignorant to know the thing they held and those who delighted in the pain alike.
For the first time, the smile reached its eyes and it said.
“Thank you, little bird you may call me Autumn.”
“And me Raven” came the reply.
And so they left that wonderful place, with a fire in their soul, love in their heart and spreading the wings they thought had been broken years ago.