Sylvan Home

Lythriel opened the studded wooden door and stepped out into a sea of greenness and inhaled the intense odor of the woods - the smell of sap, pines and December rain all mixed up in her nose and made her ecstatic. Never would she leave this place, she swore, a sylvan haven and home to her dreams. Here she'd sit on logs and write letters to the constellations, lean on tree trunks and daydream, make a bed of leaves and look for hazelnuts to crack open and eat just like she used to with her childhood friends - a memory long gone but nevertheless preserved in the last chamber of her heart. And he would be there to share every new memory and adorn it with his presence. He would be there to call her in when it rains and light a fire. Or to let the heaven-sent drops soak them both as their hands intertwine. She'd be there to point at tiny insects creeping beneath the beds of grass and unknown flowers whose names they'd memorize. Lythriel would play her flute everyday, wear a crown of flowers and leaves, make one for him and be an elf, his elf. They'd be immortal to each other. At least here, she can dream. At least here, they can dream. Lythriel walks to the side door to cut logs for the chimney. It will be a cold night but now that she had a home, she felt that even seven Winters cannot freeze her to death.