A green field, stretching as far as the eye can see. Small honey-colored seeds are scattered loosely across the plain, embedded in the ground. She is working on each, as if it were made of the finest metal–drawing it out, braiding, sculpting, and entwining the filaments; growing each into a fine, gently pulsing web. What are they? I ask. What are they for?
Tears, She says, and smiles. A heart connection. A call to action. A connection already sewn that needs time to grow. They are aware but sleeping. When the time comes they will awake. Heart to my heart, love to my love.
Where are they? I ask.
Folkvang, She replies.