Again he sat within a tiny, neat home, welcomed in by the ethereal grace of the same elf-maid that came to his dreams before. She only ever spoke what few words were needed to direct his movement or attention; the rest of his time in her company was filled by her soft, honeyed voice intoning songs and poems of places and folk long left to legend.
And each time he listened obediently, rapt in her words even when he did not quite understand them. The enigma of their dream-meetings intrigued him even onto waking life, and he thought that he should perhaps, one time, ask her... something. Anything. A single question to dispel the mystery of her visitations and make of her a flesh and blood being rather than a figment of a weary and darkened mind.
But each time, he wavered in her presence. She was too otherworldly, too radiantly beneficent, to question with his mortally flawed curiosity.
And so he sat still and let her lyrics find his sleeping soul, until daybreak carried her back to the far reaches of his consciousness.
