Disclaimer: I don't own anything! The words in italics are from Les Miserables and I completely recommend Lea Salonga's voice singing if you want to hear this song. It's called The Dream I Dreamed.
Author's Note: So I fell in love with this song and inspiration struck, despite the fact that this story took forever to put together. I debated leaving it all as one long fic or to break it up. Guess which one I chose.
Hurricanes on the horizon-not even kidding. It's raining like hell here and there are more storms right behind Isaac.
There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting.
Heimdall was a wonder on summer nights, Martel remembers. She remembers the way that fireflies would dance on the breeze and the way she and Papa would lay back on the grass and he would ask her what she saw. She remembers, somewhat, of sitting on a stump outside their small hut and watching as Mithos waddled to her from Mama's arms on chubby toddler legs.
She remembers listening to frog songs in the river and the cicadas constantly playing while she slept. She remembers sleeping without blankets because Heimdall became entirely too humid after it rained. She remembers her and another girl (She found it strange that she couldn't remember, but then, it had been more than ten years since they were cast out) daring each other to go further, further out into the Ymir Forest, to poke at the giant catfish beneath the water with a stick. She remembers laughing in delight when the catfish would surface; it had seemed so wondrous then.
And somewhere in the very far reaches of her mind, Martel remembers sitting at the Storyteller's feet during the warm summer nights when the fireflies danced on the breeze and the stars were clear in the sky. She remembers, vaguely, Mithos in her mother's arms and her leaning on Papa's shoulder as she listened to the Storyteller speak about the Summon Spirits and great heroes.
The Storyteller had a nice voice, she remembers. Lilting and with the musicality of the elves, but there had been passion there too, passion for what he did and the stories he told. For an entire month, Martel had wanted to be a Storyteller too, so that she could know such great tales. Her father had smiled sadly at her when she said that, but he never told her why.
