<img src="http://www.glovesandholly.com/downloads/legend/banners/storybanner.gif" align="right">Wind rustled the leaves of the ever-growing trees, serenity apparent in the perfect atmosphere. Grass grew in a pleasant green, tall and untouched, so different from the artificial patches of sod one would see today. The forests were a thing of unfathomable beauty; trees that grew wild, so tall you couldn't see the tops, with patches of clover and flower that spread for miles on end and never seemed to relent in their wonder, their absolute perfection. The people who lived in the presence of this beauty, they knew that they were blessed beyond all reason, that it was indeed a gift to live in a place to glorious. Everything knew that this place was paradise.
In such a perfect world, only a perfect race did exist. The race, you see, was not one of a certain name or certain color, but extended over a wide variety of individuals. Said individuals had no similarities, appearance-wise, but all that mattered was that they cared for the nature and the environment... as if you could not, while living here. Two such beings, a woman by the name of Parale, and a man titled Barthalow, were so deeply infatuated that neither could fathom being apart. Such a love was bound and protected by the gods themselves, for these two were destined to produce a truly gifted child.
The lovers seemed to melt into the placidity of the whole environment, joyously carousing among the Spring-kissed flowers. Each morning, he would pick a single dandelion from the field for his dearest, presenting it to her when the clock struck noon. This routine would never change, and Barthalow was always out for hours searching for the most perfect flower for his Parale. Upon the presentation of the flower, her lips would meet his in a moment that no one could ever recreate. Though time stood still while they spent their lives in harmony, the world about them shifted and seasons changed beneath them. By the time winter had come and was nearly gone, a treasured day was growing near.
The memorial and remembrance of Saint Valentine, the man who had given all he had for his lover. Upon this sacred day, the lovers joined and their bodies entwined, creating hours of pure ecstasy. Within those beloved moments, Parale was impregnated as they had hoped. She carried within her a child that would live for an eon and more, as they knew their love always would. The parents had not a clue of the sheer wonder this child would be born with-- and the burden it would bear in the future. After nine months of excited chatter with the people whom she lived alongside of, Parale gave birth to a baby girl. She escaped the womb with a small object held within her desperate grasp, a string with not a thing attached. How did the infant receive such a blessed object, no one could explain, but the couple knew that they were very loved to receive such a child.
One year had come and gone since Barthalow and Parale had made love. The day of St. Valentine's again made its way to their lives. Barthalow left the house early that morning to retrieve his dandelion, to present to his lover. Anxiously awaiting his return, Parale sat upon her rocking chair, nursing the young child they had come to call Arania. The clock struck its hour, no, their hour, and the man had not returned with his gift. Parale waited. She sat rocking in her chair for a full day, until again, noon struck the clock and its dismal sound echoed over the silent hills. A tear trickled down Parale's cheek as she waited... Waited another day, and another. It did not feel as if days were passing, but pass they did. Parale grew gray within that chair, and Arania had given up after weeks of sleeping upon her mother's breast. She cooked for herself, put herself to bed, dressed herself in her mother's finest garb, all while letting the hypnotized Parale simply rock, without sleep, without relent.
Arania fed her mother, though the stubborn woman often refused to eat, saying in a rasped and parched voice, "Only my Barthalow can feed me..." Years had gone by, and still Parale waited... she was now aging, as she was supposed to, thin gray streaks slipping through her glorious locks. Arania was now the ripe age of seven. It was, again, their day; the fourteenth of February. Knowing that this day was so important to the lovers' existence, she put on her best hiking clothes and strolled out of the house, glancing up at her mouth with a serious expression plastered on my face. "I'm going to find father," she said with every ounce of confidence she had in her. Parale gave but a distant nod as the child set off. The mother watched her child like a hawk, until she disappeared over the horizon line.
Each day, Arania returned home empty-handed, slept for the night in the comfort of her own home, and left the next morning to, again, search for her father. Months upon months of this daily routine, it fell in as every day life, just as Barthalow's retrieval of the dandelion had. Upon the day of the spring equinox, Arania set out on her quest three hours late. Swiftly tapping her dainty feet into the small socks, she dashed out into the daytime air, the wind racing through her loose hair. Gazing out over the extensive fields, something caught her eye. A wisp of purple air stood out against the clear cerulean skies, darting through the hills of tiny flowers. It stopped dead about a foot from Arania, disappearing for a moment.
When it slid back into vision, something struck the girl as impossible. Before her stood Barthalow, a single, beautiful dandelion clutched in his grasp. Pressing the tiny flower into his child's palms, he tilted his head and gave her a warm grin. His fingers grazed her cheek as he whispered, "Arania, you have grown just as lovely as your mother... Give to her these flowers and tell her that I love her." With those words, he took fourteen steps backwards, materializing into the wind. Purple flecks of some spiritual dust showered her, causing the dandelion to glow a low violet. Staring in utter disbelief, Arania had no words to describe, even to herself, what had just taken place. As if in a trance, she walked slowly home, arriving at her doorstep the next day.
The sound of a gong caught the wind and spread over the land. Such a noise symbolized noontime. Stepping up to the door, Arania turned to see her mother upon the front porch, rocking. Age had struck her; wrinkles curved over her face and covered the once-perfect countenance. Though, despite what the years had give to her, she still held an indescribable beauty. Arania sauntered right up to her, presenting the flower in her open palm. "Daddy loves you," she whispered, staring up at Parale, awaiting a response.
The woman gazed upon the flower with indifference for quite a few moments. A smile purged her wrinkled lips, and she settled back into her chair, the grin ever so apparent within her aged features. "I knew he did... I always knew..." With those final seven words, her eyes slid shut and she died in the most silent way, that not a soul would ever dare to disturb her. To everyone, she was simply resting, still awaiting her love. Arania gave a kiss to her mother's palm and walked inside the house to begin her work.
With a pin, she pricked the tiniest hole in the stem of the dandelion. From her pocket, she retrieved the tiny string she was born with and slid it through the hole, tying the dandelion onto it. Raising it to her neck, she strung it around and knotted it with skill, the skill of the gods. This knot would not loosen, even the slightest, for many an age. For an eon and longer, Arania wore this necklace. It was her father, it was her mother... It was her charm.
Upon the fourteenth of February, a countless number of years later, Arania met her death. The dandelion that strung about her neck had loosened and slid off. Arania fell to the hard cement that coated her once-serene homeland, clutching the blessed charm. The beloved woman was cremated, and her ashes were used to bear many a child of her caliber; Legends, so they were to be called.
