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    Your Elvenar Team

Weeping Willow

Ashrem

Oh Wise One
The tales of Ashrem’s ancestors tell that the willow weeps for joy, not sadness, yet the bard approaches, reverentially, unconvinced. He raises the bottle of wine in his left hand and pours a little river of crimson into the water to honor the spirit that inhabits the ancient tree. As always, his gift is acknowledged, the chimes in the nearby branches softly singing despite the still air. He steps into the being’s space offering a little bow before dipping a fingertip into the flow to bring the elixir to his lips. A drink for a drink. A bargain offered and accepted.

Not salty, his elders told him, when speaking of the tears that flowed endlessly from the tree to nourish it's own roots, but sweet. The sweetness of mana, of life, of spring’s promise and summer’s bloom, of autumn's fruit and winter's rest. They are wrong, though, Ashrem knows. Sweet for certain it is true, but the salt is there. Hidden behind the nectar, so faint as to be easily missed, but there, nonetheless. The spirit has much to celebrate, but celebration is empty if it does not overcome loss, and the tree has been there for an eternity, witnessing the passing of a hundred generations, celebrating the good, and remembering the bad for those like Ashrem who were not there to remember. For the hundred generations that are gone except for the spirit's memory. Those who think the tree’s tears are solely for joy do not understand life. Do not understand that without sorrow, joy has no meaning. Ashrem lays a hand on the bark stroking the rough, gnarled, skin, and shares a private communion with the spirit. Offering it a little of his own joy, and sorrow in return for the spirit’s own offer. Sharing a gift and burden that they might be multiplied and lessened. The spirit remembers, and that is as it should be.

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DeletedUser12586

Guest
That was very moving and full of imagery. Wonderful writing.
 
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