Thread: An open window spells invitation (Demure+Lanolyt)

Vargalad's eyes were rimed with the many tears he had cried. He perched in the crotch of the elder oak, thirty feet up, and far from prying eyes. In a matter of minutes, the last magical old growth forest had caught fire from who knew what, and the fierce inferno had raced around the edge, whipped by winds. Pixie, sprite, satyr...all were gone. He had been here, resting in the oak even older than those of the grove. It was here he had brought the smoking near dead body of Halithlin the dryad...her wounds far to extensive for him to have even offered small solace. So he had kissed his friend of many centuries, brought her to the central meeting of this giant oak's bough, spoken the words of joining and watched the tree accept her into itself, merged her magical energies. With any luck, next year or the following, a silvery acorn would appear, which he would plant to gow a new dryad tree. But that had been three weeks ago. Now, he surveyed the long abandoned house. Previously tenanted by the sweet lady Jessie Lynn. She had remembered the old ways, leaving milk and eggs out for the Fae creatures, and they had gifted her in return. Never was she ill, and when she married, she was abundantly fertile with health in her family. In her last year, as she sat lonely, he had come to her, allowing her to see him, a whiled away her passing days with many a tale, or trick to show. She was an artist, and when she sketched his pale face and golden locks, he had let her frame it, and signed it in Elvish with, 'always to be cherished.' She had had a Granddaughter visit a few times. A spunky girl who he felt bemoaned that she had not the old dame's skill with the brush...yet he could read that the stylus was where her gifts lay. Once, she had starled him by throwing up a rope and climbing to his favorite perch. He had crouched behind her as she saw his various items, likely assuming that coon or crow had collected them. He had not begrudged her the ivory, gemstudded hair comb she'd taken, for she'd taken a bit of his heart with her. He knew they could share auras, but she left before growing, Old Jessie died, and the house remained untouched these many years, but for him. He told the mice they could shelter and play there, but could not chew anything. Now, not even a month from his own disaster. Now was she returning. What could it mean? He tried to read her future in the orb weaver's silks, but it was far to muddled...as though he'd foolishly tried to read his own. Skipping to the roof, he hung from the eaves of the first floor and peered in the top of a high window. There she was, laying sprawled innocently on a couch. She was all grown, no longer gangly and bony, but with rich curves...that he would enjoy against himself... Now where had that sprouted from? Never had he been attracted to a human except for her...only her. He saw the comb by her purse. There was now a crack in it. Smiling, he spoke of wholeness and the crack sealed. Slipping through the front door, he touched her chest. Her aura nearly as pure and good as was that of her child self. Relieved, though unsure why, he drifted to the bookshelf, and pulled out Jessie Lynn's journal. Then he balanced it on edge, and whisked himself out, closing the door, just as the journal, filled with meetings, sketches and notes, hit the floor where she slept.