Sylvan Dreams

Image: Pixabay

“Passages through life spark the beginnings of death.”

The rustling wind could not hide the arctic chill in the air, but if anything deepened it.

“My Lord.”

The child’s voice rippled through the ghost grass, touching off little bluebells and causing them to droop and nod.

“So it begins.” Orineous embraced his destiny foretold by the ancient witches and slid his sword into his belt. “With me, Calfie, daughter of the winter grass?” It was the command the fairy elves obeyed as the symbol of the old accord.

“At your will.”

Almost wistful, it parted the stillness, a spoken word older than the hills and forests, yet youthful as eternal spring. Slowly, slowly, he walked his horse forward over the dewy moss, towards the sun setting over the Antoichyns.

Meanwhile, amid the plodding of hooves on underbrush, the light patter of tiny feet followed the man seeking his kingdom.



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