Disclaimer: The story is mine, the name Teena Dearheart is not.

The character Teena Dearheart belongs to Daniel Björkman. Since not much of her was known, he allowed me to drabble about her. Admittedly, this is longer than a drabble, and in the end, her name doesn't even appear anymore..

The name, I suppose, isn't really important to this piece anyway. Why anyone would want to use a char in their stories they hardly know is beyond me, but if you want to, I strongly suggest you ask Daniel's permission first.

This bit conceived ages ago, cleaned up today, the 11th of August, 2005.

Enjoy and let me know how well you think I'm portraying Verbena mages, would you? I'm still not sure, hehe..

On Her Way

It was early morning, the air was chilly this time of the year, as it usually was.

Autumn was slowly creeping closer, the Sun's powers seeping away as quietly and assuredly as it would be back next year.

And as quietly and assuredly as she always had, and would for many cycles more, a woman made her way through the forest, the slightly moist forest floor fresh against her naked feet.

She moved with such ease, walked with such soundlessness that to any onlooker - had there, in fact, been any onlookers there - she would have appeared to float effortlessly through the underbrush.

And indeed, no footprints remained where she had stepped, enforcing the idea that something not quite common had passed before your eyes.

That, of course, was not entirely wrong.

But since no onlookers were present, no theories, ideas, no superstitions could be attributed to her presence.

It could be said that, since no mortal had seen her, she wasn't really there.

But only really narrow-minded people would hold to that view, one had to admit.

Teena had no time for such feebleminded fools, as she was on her way. She was on Her Way.

She didn't feel the moist leafs as they caressed her feet, or maybe she was too aware to notice that in particular.

Out here.. Out Here, she was..

She was on Her Way.

The sunlight filtered through the deck of leafs that crowned large oaks and birch and ash.

Leaves would start falling soon, creating a natural rain of decay that would, in turn, become creation, but for now, the leaves were green. Occasionally though, Teena would spy a leaf turning yellow, becoming one with the colour of the passing sun, reminding Them of what was to Come and what would Be.

The air was fresh, a testament to the dewdrops, spread evenly throughout the forest, catching that fragrance of waking green and sending it into the air as sunlight brought down warmth, energy, and gave life.

She could feel it.

The forest around her, the earth beneath her, the air around her, the.. she could feel it, them.. her.. she could Feel.

Her eyes were closed as a result, to help her See better.

Much like a blind person who, lacking the facilities of sight, used his concentration on his other senses to get by, Teena 'got by'.

It helped of course that she had powers beyond any blind man's comprehension as any fool could see.

The scenery changed. The forest grew darker, the sunlight sparse, neither an exclusive result of the other. And now, here where it was darker, she sighed.

Her lungs expanded with the inhaled fragrances that mingled in the air. Fresh flowers, crowned with dewdrops, festering mushrooms, fallen acorns, the taste of bark, the tickling of sand and grass...

Everything..

And as it was in her, she was in it, and together, they were one.

They Were.

They Had Been.

They Would Be.

Without ever opening her eyes, she turned deosil and gracefully stepped down the four stone steps jutting out of the small sand wall, overgrown with moss and ivy, almost completely obscuring them from view.

She paused there and was still for a while, becoming much like that which was around her. She Became what she Was and Had Been and Would Be Again in times to come.

For a moment, all those times that she Was, Had Been, Would Be came together, creating a view of time as perhaps She saw it. Timeless in it's never ending Change.

She felt herself be pulled into the Now again as the wind picked up and teased her hair. She would meditate upon this later.

In the Now, she opened her eyes and stepped forward, confident steps taking her to what appeared to be a crude altar, made of pieces of rock that seemed thrown together in a haphazard way and very near to collapse.

She granted it a lover's touch, sighing at the tingling everything here brought her, assuring her that the cool stone was as much a part of Her as she was. And in that, they were one, and the only real emotion you needed for yourself was love. Therefore, she loved the stone as well. For in its own way, it was part of her, as it was part of Her.

Her hands, nimble fingered, gently touched upon the small pouch hanging from a cord tied around her waist. Unhurried, she extracted it from it's agreeable position, and placed it on the altar. Her athame was placed reverently besides it, as was her dossil. Her hands went to another pocket and retrieved a small disc, a worn engravement lovingly traced before placing it too, on the altar.

She knelt down for a moment, reaching under the lying stone of the altar before standing again, having retrieved a simple wooden chalice, two pieces of thin wood, and something that looked remarkably like a shoe-horn.

For a moment, she busied herself arranging the items on her altar, more out of habit than real need. Of course she had placed them perfectly the first time, but this was her way of preparing herself. This was her way to Become. This was how she was Going To Be.

This Was.

A match was struck on the altar, the black stripes showing previous, similar suffering on behalf of the patient rock, and she lit the pieces of wood, before dowsing their fire with two wetted fingers. Soon the two thin pieces of wood, sticking diagonally upwards out of their base - the incense holder shaped like a shoehorn - were wafting gently with scented smoke.

She waved a hand at it, pulling the smoke in circles and making sure it got around, even though, of course, it would do so on its own just fine as well.

But she liked to add her own touch, her own input.. By putting something of herself in it, she hoped it would be a little bit of her, and if it was of her, it was also Hers, since she was, effectively part of Her.

Her thoughts turned back to the ritual as she opened the small pouch she had placed on the altar, and emptied it's contents on the stone.

Her hands went out to greet that which now lay on her altar, the memory of collecting fresh in her mind. A feather light touch on the grass reminded her of the weaving sea she had pulled it from, the rub of acorn brought back the squirrel that had cocked its head at her while the still moist root of a decidedly poisonous plant reminded her hand of the sand under her nails as she had carefully dug it up and pocketed the ingredient.

Lastly, her hand went to her pocket again, and pulled out a small vial, filled with a clear and bright green liquid.

Time to get to work.

fin