Thirty Winters
At once there was a bright flash of light, and with it came a loud crack, like the breaking of some mighty beam, and a low rumble went forth and the earth shook. Then came a roaring wind, hot like the breath of a great fire-wyrm, rending all in its path.
When he opened his eyes, all about him and above was ash and wreckage. The sky was black, and though it was but midday, and though he looked for the sun, he could not find her.
And of what followed, of where he went, of whence he came, no song is now known. For many long years the world lay as one endless winter, until at last the sun once more looked upon the earth.
He awoke in a green glade, rich with tall grasses and many-hued blossoms, and above him he could hear birds singing, though of what deeds birds may sing he could not fathom. He rubbed his eyes and blinked the sleep away.
He had fallen asleep beneath a great oak of no fewer than thirty winters. He sat there for a time under the shade of that tree, where the sun’s light broke through the leaves, and he could feel her warmth, and did not wish to rise.
At last he set his mind to it, stretched, stood, and began to gather his things. “What an odd dream,” he thought to himself, as he looked back into the glade one last time before following the track into the trees.
-Wræcca