Ærosylle heaved a sigh, looking around for the elf. He had disappeared...probably into the sunset like Finian was always saying. A tear pricked her eye. Why was she crying? She had seen many elves...yet she had never spoken to one. Yes...that must have been it.
Stop crying you slimy human the grumpy plank growled. Be like us wood...we who are solid and stern. We never cry...do you know why? It's because we, in the wisdom of our over long lives, know [/i] that crying will do one no good. It won't solve a thing.[/i]
Ærosylle sniffed. The Wooden Plank could be so wonderfully cheering sometimes. She blinked at it and slipped away. She would leave him to his own cynic views.
She crept outside and stared at the birds. She wished that she could turn into a bird and fly away toward Mirkwood and have adventures. She remembered that when she had been younger, she had wished that she could grow wings, but Finian had told her that it was impossible to grow wings and to stop thinking foolish thoughts.
Could a human turn into a bird?
She bit her lip and meandered into the barn. Finian had never said that it was impossible. Had he even mentioned the subject. She cocked her head, beckoning the Breeze to remind her if Finian had mentioned the subject and if he had, what he had said. The air remained still. The Breeze would have come when she had called him with her silent plea. But the Breeze was a lazy thing and would only come if he was really needed.
She nodded.
His abscense meant that Finian had remained silent upon the subject. Since Finian had not mentioned it, it must be possible.
With a deep sigh of contentment that reminded the hay of a golden ray of sun, Ærosylle reached a grubby hand for an even grubbier ladder and began to climb to the hay loft. She could hear the hay mutter accusingly as she passed. She had forgotten to visit them. She felt a pang of guilt. She was supposed to have brought tea too. She shook her head and patted the hay, hoping to pacify it. It worked as it always did. Hay didn't have the sense or inclination to be angry long.
Opening the loft door (there was a name for it but her memory quite failed her -- it was wretched at its job) she perched upon the wooden step.
How did one turn into a bird?
She closed her eyes and thought hard with all her might. Birds...feathers....soaring winds...
|