It must be a millennium by now. Any time now that new volunteer would blunder through the woods to my perch.
This branch over time turned my skin a delicate soft white. My hair has designed it’s-self a style intertwined like the roots of the tree.
My clothes have become a bit sparse. Not one to reveal much, I look forward to my long wide dresses again.
Surprises. No where’s as dull as I figured. The rootlets sang ancient songs on solstices. The roots vibrated with life force. Minerals in the soil clinging to the leaning tree glistened and glowed.
And, hey, I, yes me, even learned stuff. How the stars keep their shine. Why lemons are bitter. How to chose the right path. What your eyes say about you.
The Tree and I often talked though no words were spoken.
I am the guardian of the Tree. Keeping the Tree of Life; of Magic from toppling to the ground.
The Tree needs a companion so loneliness doesn’t create the upheaval of roots, like before.
The volunteer guardians, for their duty, receive an appropriate present, carved by the royal carver from branches given freely by the tree. But hey, what would I do with a wooden brooch?
It must be a millennium by now. Hope my replacement is late; the Tree is going to tell me a tale from the cycle of the Myriads, which apparently has 1,000 poems or pages. I forget which.
Anja has been choosing phenomenal pictures as our fairy tale prompts. The Kristy Mitchell one for prompt 31 is especially haunting to me. I was completely drawn into the picture, and needed to shake my head to come back to my now.