(1 Lormesta 5115: An aside – the harp’s interjection)
The young elf sings me her name in the night; her secret name. Liquid, warm and precious, splashes upon my heartwood. It is my first memory. My thought next, a probing wonderment. But she does not hear. I have so many questions. But foremost of all, “Is she mine?”
Now I wait. For her.
Music make. With her.
Oh, the ache of her.