Amidst a bed of leaves he sits, the Reverier. His mind wanders, dances, weaves invisible threads of thought. His spine nestled in the nooks and crannies of the pine bark against which he rests.
Intricate winds caress the branches, which let loose from the still air a pleasant hum, one which dulls the senses and calms the mind. His arms outstretched conduct an invisible, unheard orchestra. His expression, one of wonder, well imparts his deep spirit of serenity.
The breeze lightens, and the hum lulls. The ancient trees about him cease their motion. From twixt the trees opposite his bed, the other side of the clearing of pines, steps forth another, a being unknown. His eyes still closed, he looks skyward, receiving the perfect azure hue. Though his eyes remain closed still.
The other one steps forward, near the centre of the clearing, and sits upon it’s knees. Had his eyes been open, could it have stared deep into his very soul. But lacking such capacity now, instead it speaks to him directly, with a tone so pure it might well have been confused for the droning of the trees.
“O, you who are seated, is it of you whom I’ve heard tales, the spinner of great stories, the weaver of fables, fact, and fiction?”
His eyes still closed, his expression unchanged, he tilts his neck down from the sky, and answers.
“I didn’t know that they told stories about me,” the Reverier said, “and I can’t create stories, only recount dreams.”
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“O, Reverier, but of you indeed are stories told. Of great depth and detail is your craft, so it is said. And on account of your inability to create fable but through dream, is not dreaming itself the act of creation of a tale?”
“Why did you call me the Reverier?”
The being shifted, relaxed further it’s composure, and answered in a different, calming tone.
“O, Reverier, for that is who you are. Amidst nature you sit, enveloped by it’s serenity, you tell yourself stories, perpetually in reverie.
O, Reverier, how the trees here long to hear your tales, for what resides within your head is unknowable to them. This is why I ask you to speak your fables aloud, such that this whole forest may share in your untold dreams.”
The Reverier leaned forward to rest his cheek upon his palm. His eyes still closed, he sat in such a manner for a time. And the being before him did not move nor shift nor speak, for it await patiently his response.
And finally, the Reverier spoke, “I can try to tell you a story. I had a dream once, about two children finding an ancient stone. Would you like me to tell you this dream?”
The winds picked up, and the same lulling hum lifted from the air, as if applause from the trees itself. The being did not speak; though it shifted and relaxed further yet again.
The Reverier though faintly blushed, upturned the corners of his lips into a smile ever faint. He muttered, “Okay”, and began to talk, of the marble of the glade.