dryads

“Tell me a happy story,” the dryad sleepily mumbled to her wife, curled up in her arms.

The mermaid smiled and ran a gentle hand along the dryad’s cheek. “The legends of the moon and the sea never meeting are false. They meet each night, they kiss with each high wave and every moon beam.”

The dryad made a soft noise of happiness and drifted to sleep.

“Tell me about roots,” the mermaid mumbled. “Ten more minutes of sleep, tell me about roots, then I’ll wake up,” she promised hollowly. It would be, at the very least, an hour.

“They dig,” the dryad replied with a voice as soft as blue violet secrets, “like arms and hands and fingers into the soil.” The dryad gently pushed her fingers through the sleeping mermaid’s thick, coarse hair. “They seek out water and bits of magic and every beautiful thing they need.”

Before long, it would be time for breakfast, then dishes, and then chores and the day’s business and adventures and everything wonderful or necessary or both.

But for now, there was her wife’s head in her lap, sleeping and snoring in protest to the early hour.

Smiling to herself, the dryad opened a book and quietly read.