Bedtime Story: The Druid Of The Sapphire Grove

Welcome to the reading of this bedtime story.

The Druid of the Sapphire Grove.

Far beyond the path that people remember,

Beyond the places marked on maps or spoken of in stories.

There is a grove.

It does not reveal itself to those who search.

It appears only to those who have grown quiet enough to notice what others overlook.

The trees there are tall and ancient.

Their trunks wide and gently curved.

Their bark smooth like worn stone.

Their leaves shimmer.

Not green.

The deep shades of blue.

Like twilight caught in motion.

And at the heart of this hidden place,

There is a pool.

As glass.

Clear.

Its waters glow with a soft sapphire light.

That seems to come not from above.

But from somewhere deep within the earth itself.

This is.

.

.

The Sapphire Grove.

And it is watched over by a truid.

His name is Serindor.

He does not remember when he first arrived in the grove.

Or perhaps.

.

.

It has simply been there for so long that time no longer moves the way it does.

In other places.

Is neither young not old.

His hair falls in long,

Silver strands.

Touched faintly with blue where the light of the grove has lingered.

His eyes are calm.

And study.

Reflecting the quiet surface of the pool.

He wears robes the color of moss.

And shadow.

Thinkful.

And worn.

As though they too have lived many lives.

Erendor does not speak often.

No,

Because he cannot.

Patikos.

In the grove.

Words are rarely needed.

The trees listen.

The water,

Remembers.

And the wind carries thoughts.

More gently.

Don't sound ever good.

Each morning,

Though morning here is more a feeling than a time,

Erindor walks to the grove.

Barefoot.

Slowly.

Filling the parts of the earth beneath him.

He poses beside certain trees.

Placing his hand against their bark.

Closing his eyes.

Listening.

Sometimes.

He kneels by the pool.

Watching the surface for long stretches.

As though waiting for something to appear.

Sometimes.

That's.

.

.

Because the pool is not ordinary water.

It is a place where truth gather.

Not loud truth.

Not the kind that demand attention.

But the quiet ones.

The ones that sit beneath the surface of the heart.

Waiting.

Long ago.

When Erindorf first came to the grove.

He was not yet a druid.

He was simply throughout the lair.

Tired.

Start chain.

Carrying questions that had no clear answers.

He had walked many lands.

Spoken to many people.

That is.

Many ditchings.

But still.

Something within him Remain and set out.

I'm feeling that.

There was something more.

Just beyond his reach.

He did not know what he was looking for.

Only that he had not.

Found it.

And so.

Good evening.

As the sky dimmed and the world softened.

He wandered off the known path.

Not with intention.

Bad.

With surrender.

And that is when the growth revealed itself.

At first.

He thought he was dreaming.

The blue leaves,

Stillness.

The soft glow of the poor,

Everything.

Quieter.

Not empty,

But full in a way that did not overwhelm.

He stepped forward.

Slowly.

And the moment his foot touched the ground within the grove,

Something in him.

The art.

The questions he had carried for so long did not disappear.

But they softened.

As though they no longer needed to be answered immediately.

And in their walk,

To the center.

To the pool.

And without knowing why,

He knelt beside it.

He looked into the water.

For a moment,

Nothing.

Only his reflection.

But then.

.

.

The surface He's dead.

Not with movement,

But with depth.

And he began to see something else.

Memory.

Not just remembered,

But felt.

A moment from his past.

Feared with longing.

A moment where he had searched for meaning outside himself.

Not realizing it had always been within.

He held.

Slowly.

And.

.

.

As he did.

The image faded.

The water became steel.

Once more.

That's something.

Hat change.

Not in the crow.

Hmm.

I'm in those days.

Not because he decided to.

But because living no longer felt necessary.

This bus.

Or perhaps.

.

.

These songs.

They moved differently there.

He learned to listen.

Not to thoughts.

But to the spaces between them.

He learned to sit beside the pool without needing it to show him anything.

And slowly.

Without effort.

He became.

.

.

Part of the grove.

Patrice began to respond to him.

Their lips would shift gently when he passed.

Even when there was no wind.

The water would glow.

A little brighter When he approached,

And the silence.

Deep Bend.

Not empty silence.

But living silence.

The kind that holds everything.

That was when he understood.

He had not gone to the grove to find answers.

He had come to become still enough.

To no longer need them in that stillness.

He became.

.

.

Through it.

Now.

Erinder watches.

Not over the grove,

But with it.

Because the growth,

Like all living things.

Is not separate from those who find it.

It is a meeting place.

Stress hold.

Quiet invitation.

Sometimes.

Very rarely A traveller arrives.

Not guided by maps.

Bad.

By something.

Softer.

Something quieter.

Feeling.

A moment of surrender.

And when they step into the grove.

Erendor knows.

He does not approach immediately.

He allows the grove to welcome them first.

Still now.

The light.

The quiet sheath.

In the air.

Then when the moment is right.

He appears.

And suddenly.

.

.

But gently.

No.

He has always been there.

Good evening.

As the light of the growth deepened into rich sapphire hues.

A young woman entered.

Her steps were hesitant.

Air breath.

Uneven.

She looked around,

Unsure.

As though she had not meant to arrive.

But could not deny that she had.

And are watched from a distance.

He felt the weight he carried.

Not visible.

But present.

Like a quiet echo.

Within hair.

You walk.

Toward the pool.

Thrown.

Just as he had once been.

She knows.

Looked into the water.

And waited.

At first,

Nothing happened.

The surface remains still.

But then.

.

.

Very slowly.

It began to shift.

And memory.

Immersed.

Not clear in form,

Clear.

In feeling Regret.

Soft.

Lingering.

The kind that comes from believing you have chosen the wrong path.

The woman's breath.

Her eyes feared with tears.

He whispered something.

Quiet to hear.

But the growth?

I heard it.

Erendor.

Felt it.

This time,

Step 2.

Forward.

He did not speak.

He simply stood.

Beside her.

Thank you.

Press them.

Like the trees.

Like the water.

She looked up.

Him.

Surprised.

And not afraid.

Because something in him felt familiar.

Not as a person.

I suppress them.

Dean it.

As understanding.

Erendor slowly knelt beside her.

And together,

They looked into the pool.

The image shifted again.

Not to erase the regret.

But to soften it.

To show not just the path they can.

But all the moments of quiet beauty that had lived within it.

The small kindnesses.

The unnoticed joys the cinto and foldings.

The woman's breathing Slow down.

Her shoulders?

Offend.

And,

Without realizing it,

She placed her hand over her heart.

They are indoor.

Closed his eyes.

For a moment.

The grove responded.

The light.

Depend.

The silence.

Expanded.

And the regret?

Tom Thorn not into something else.

But into something.

Understood.

After a while.

The woman?

To it.

She looked at the pool.

One last time.

Erin Dar.

There were no words.

Known where needed.

She nodded.

Tantly.

And turned to leave.

As she stepped out of the growl,

The World Beyond Synth Writer.

Not because it had changed.

But because?

Shihad.

Ewindor.

Remain.

As he always does.

Walking the crow Listening.

Waiting.

Not for answers.

But for those who are ready to become still enough.

To remember.

If one day You find yourself wondering.

.

.

Not lost.

But no longer certain.

Where you are going If the air becomes quiet in a way you cannot explain.

If the light shifts slightly,

You may be closer than you think.

Do a growth.

Of blue leaves.

To a pool that remembers.

Until I drew it.

Who does not guide you forward.

But gently A mind seal.

That what you are seeking has been within you all along.

Good night,

Sweet dreams.