H
e stepped in rhythm to the swaying of the elder trees. For so long he had known this forest. He was familiar with its dance. Perhaps, given another century or so, Lovis would know it well enough for the trees to invite him to dance with them too.Or perhaps they never would embrace him. Surely they would not if they were made aware of his inability to keep his own garden lively. If asked the man would not even be able to recount the last time that he had culled his plot of weeds. For even they were loath to grow for him.
He pulled his scarf tighter to him. The depths of the forest only knew meager light. Viride's giants clutched at all that the sun gave. What fell to the forest floor was merely what had slipped from their grasp.
Was it remorse for their hungry greed that led them to painting all below? Pale light sent by the sun was, by them, made vibrant. It was filtered by deep greens and became a warm dappled gold.
Looking up from the painted shadows was to meet the many bright eyes of the night. It was to see the stars finding a way to be wakeful in the presence of Solis. Pinpoints of daylight that sought out the gaps that the canopy failed to fill.
Dusk had cloaked the library by the time that Lovis came to its door. His time in the library was something akin to time spent in worship. Sometimes it was something more sacred and dearly held. So many years he had lived yet never did the library allow him to leave without having learned something new. It was with reverence that he came into its halls.
Were Lovis to ever offer his being to monkhood it would be to this library that he would humbly give himself.
Were he ever to be reincarnated he would hope to be born again as one of the library foxes.
He strode down the halls with the confidence of one who walks a path taken many times over by their previous selves. He knew every dip and rise of the floor.
What Lovis did not know was that his favorite place to read in the library was taken. He favored it for it being tucked away in an unassuming corner. An afterthought of the architect. Easily forgotten or overlooked by other patrons.
The pillows were timeworn. Their stuffing was tired and left them to slump. The pattern on the rug was a memory of its former radiance. It lacked the refinement of the rest of the reading beds but it was worn comfortably. It was a homely spot he had imagined to have melded itself to his own form.
Seeing another in his spot put a hitch in his step. He faltered but settled into a spot nearby."Might I ask," he shifted and fluffed the pillows until they were to his liking, "how long it is that you plan to stay?"
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