Listening Close
Bran hopped along through the trees. There was snow upon the ground, but it had suddenly become a great deal warmer. Snowdrops were poking up here and there, the green of their leaves and stems a bright splash of color against a monochromatic world, and their blossoms so fragile and new, yet hardy enough to bear the cold. All around the trees were beginning to put out new leaves and new buds for the coming flowers, and the air was filled with the scent of rain and earth, of the sounds of flowing water and the hum of insects. This didn’t seem like the Winter. The Stone Crow was beginning to suspect that he’d stumbled across the border into the Springlands. Ahead the transformation was even more brilliant. Snow giving way to vibrant colors. The green of leaves in the trees, the grass that carpeted the earth, and the deep hues of moss growing upon brown tree trunks or grey boulders. Flowers of all colors sprung here and there, entwining themselves and putting out their most tantalizingly sweet smells. Fat honeybees buzzed contentedly from blossom to blossom, drunk off the nectar and their bodies carrying the loads of sticky pollen. He heard them before he saw them. The joyful laughter of two voices and the sounds of music as it lifted through the trees and flowers like some ethereal and joyful expression of love itself. His very heart swelled at the sound, though he wasn’t sure why. Through the trees he came upon a clearing where two figures danced to the unseen source of the music. An elf and a faun, flower crowns woven into their hair, and their eyes only for one another as they moved with such grace and energy round the clearing. When he hopped to the edge of the clearing the music faded and both turned to him with a little surprise on their faces. “Hello, little one.” Said the Faun, his eyes gentle. “Have you come looking for healing?” Bran shook his head. “My wounds are of heart and mind, not body. I am searching for the hidden lights. This is my quest.” The pair knelt down beside him so they could be on his level. “I am Rastre,” said the Faun. “This is my husband, Aesther.” The Elf nodded with a smile, though he didn’t speak. “You say your wounds are not of the body, but wounds of the heart and mind can heal, though it takes much time and far longer. We also know the light of which you speak. So if you will let us, we might help you in two ways. Would you tell us your tale?” And so he related to them all that he had seen and done. Of his meeting and friendship with Ardri, the ship of Riona and Brin that had born them far out across the waters of the Flowered Oceans, and the splitting of their company. He told them of his discovered quest for the lanterns and their lights, of all the wonders he had seen and the people he had met, of the stories he had told of Ardri and the quest for the First Crown, of the lands where everything had fallen to dust. He told them of the bargain he had made and the memories that had returned. Of the lost and then found King Mirander, of the human girl with the crown who held many forms. When at last he had finished, he found that he felt better, his heart somehow lighter. Still his griefs were painful, and that pain had not gone or diminished, but it was as if he was able to carry it easier than before. Though they had done no more than listen to his tales, the pair of lovers seemed content that something had been changed. They rose as one. “Come,” said Aesther, speaking for the first time. “We shall take you to the thing you seek. It has long been waiting for you.”
